


Let me count the bruises

by dunklenacht310



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Bottom Zayn, Boxing, Gay Sex, Kid Fic, M/M, Private Investigators, Soulmate AU, Soulmates, Top Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunklenacht310/pseuds/dunklenacht310
Summary: Zayn is a private investigator hired by a family whose son has disappeared. Zayn is always quick to solve a case, but somehow, this Harry Styles has become a huge pain in the arse.orSoulmate AU in which, for every wound or bruise your soulmate gets, you get a matching bruise in the shape of a flower.Zayn isalwayscovered in flowers. Sometimes, he really wonderswhat the hellhis soulmate's doing.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Comments: 323
Kudos: 586





	1. Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> After so many weeks, I'm back with a new story! Sorry for disappearing, I hope this one will make you all forgive me.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

“Fuck, Zed, _again_?” Liam sighs, catching sight of Zayn’s face that morning when he gets to work.

Zayn sighs too, and shrugs. “Don’t tell me, tell my fucking soulmate. Hurt like a motherfucker, too,” he mutters, looking at himself in the reflection of his still turned-off laptop.

There’s two bruises in the shape of azaleas on his right cheekbone, today. Zayn thinks, secretly, that they look quite cool, like delicate and artful tattoos, but he can’t actually enjoy the _art_ when the flowers blooming on his body hurt _so much_.

It’s a stupid way to find the love of your life, he thinks with an eyeroll.

If your soulmate gets a cut, or a wound, or whatever blow really, flower-shaped bruises appear on your body in the same places where their own bruises are. Whenever a bruise forms on your soulmate’s body, you get a matching one in various flower shapes, basically. The flowers hurt when they appear, because you feel the same hurt as the one your soulmate feels. They’re exactly like bruises, so they change colours and fade after a couple days or so.

Zayn thinks that his soulmate is up to some weird fucking shit, because in the last two years, Zayn hasn’t gone more than three days without getting a flower bruise _somewhere_ on his body.

If he concentrates hard enough when he starts feeling the hurt of the bruise forming, he can even make out which kind of wound it is.

Most of the time, Zayn thinks it’s punches, and he won’t say it out loud, but he’s kinda worried about the fact that his soulmate, whoever he is, gets punched _so much_.

Other times, it’s… other kinds of bruises. Zayn remembers two weeks earlier, while he was at home with Liam watching a movie, and he’d suddenly felt an unequivocal soreness, like someone had bitten into the meat of his inner left thigh. The feeling had gotten right to Zayn’s dick, and he’d rushed to the bathroom. Sure enough, a purple bruise in the shape of a flower was forming there, followed by a series of smaller, lighter flowers, until both his inner thighs were littered in cute lil’ flowers meaning his soulmate was fucking getting laid and the other person was biting and sucking bruises into his skin _and Zayn’s_.

He’d wanked at the thought as soon as Liam left, even though Zayn has no idea what his soulmate even looks like. He only reckons it’s a man, because, well, Zayn’s only into men, so the universe would be double as cruel if not only it gave Zayn a punching bag as a soulmate, but also a sexually incompatible one.

Liam sighs again. “I wonder what the fuck this lad’s doing,” he murmurs, still examining Zayn’s brand new flowers on his face. “They’re so fucking beautiful, though. You should shave so that they’re more visible, honestly. Mine are not as cool,” he adds with a chuckle.

Zayn arches an eyebrow. “And they’re not as _frequent_ , Leeyum,” he retorts. “I think… I think he gets into fights or summat, to be honest. Sometimes it’s, like, a lot of bruises, in quick succession.”

Liam frowns. “Are you okay? Do they hurt a lot? We could, like, try to go to the police and…”

Zayn laughs. “And tell them to please find someone who’s into fights on a daily basis so that they can stop him from hurting me too? Come on, Leeyum. We’re in fucking Leeds. _Everybody_ ’s into fights all the time.”

Liam sighs. “Fair enough.”

“Besides, this lad also gets laid _a lot_ ,” Zayn mutters. “I wish I could feel _that_ too, instead of just the bruises he gets afterwards.”

Liam laughs, and pats Zayn on the shoulder. “You don’t need your soulmate’s _reflected_ sex for that, Zed. Let’s go out tonight. I’m sure you’ll find someone to pull in a moment. You even have the sexy flowers all over your body now, they’re better than any tattoo. I’m really jealous of how _good_ they look.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, they look cool, and I get them by feeling like _I_ am a punching bag,” he complains.

Liam seems undeterred, and only chuckles as they both turn on their laptops and start working.

+

Working at a private investigation agency hadn’t exactly been Zayn’s dream job when he first applied. He and Liam only did as kind of a joke, because Niall always said they were both ace at finding people on socials even when they barely had a name and a picture, so they might as well do that for a living.

When Zayn and Liam had been hired, they thought they were gonna give it a try, and then move on.

It’s been three years now, and if Zayn’s honest, he fucking _loves_ it.

The cases are never anything major. Being a private investigator isn’t like being a cop, and most of the time Zayn knows he and Liam are trespassing, breaking the law, committing privacy infringements, and all that. They have to. The agency takes care of all that, Zayn reckons they have an amazing team of lawyers, so he doesn’t worry about ending up in jail as often as Liam admittedly does. It’s kinda thrilling, the risk, walking on the edge, investigating.

Most of the time, they deal with disappearing husbands who often turn out to just have left their wives for a younger, fitter bird, or with stalking cases.

They’ve dealt with missing people before, so that’s not a novelty either. But the Styles case isn’t _just_ that, Zayn can feel it in his bones.

Zayn and Liam have lost more than one night of sleep on Harry Styles.

When Anne and Robin Twist had come to the agency and talked to Zayn and Liam about their missing son, Harry Styles (well, stepson for Robin, but Zayn could see that the man loved the Harry lad like he was his own), Zayn thought it would be over soon, that they’d find Harry Styles in some dark corner of the city, maybe on drugs, running away from the police, and that would be it.

It’s been three weeks, and they still have no fucking clue where Harry Styles is.

They only know that Harry had been behaving extremely oddly for the past two years, always showing up covered in bruises, sleeping until late in the afternoon and going out at nights only to find his way back to his place when the sun was rising again. His mother says it’s not like him, that he graduated in English with a honour mention, that he found a nice job in a publishing company, which didn’t pay much but he liked anyway, though he always wanted to be an English teacher. Then something happened, and Harry quit his job, didn’t even look for another, and went slowly spiralling.

Zayn agrees. Something _had_ to happen for Harry Styles to send his whole life upside down. He and Liam have talked to his former bosses and co-workers, and they all had nothing but sweet compliments for Harry, how good he was, how nice, how wonderful. It’s quite unnerving, if you ask Zayn. _There_ has _to be something wrong about you, Harry Styles_ , Zayn keeps telling him in his mind. Nobody’s perfect, especially when they look like they are.

Anne and Robin had sadly become used to not seeing their son for weeks on end, but they knew that at least Gemma, Harry’s sister, had regular contacts with him. So, when Gemma told them that she hadn’t seen or spoken to Harry in a week, they’d gone to the police.

Harry was nowhere to be found, and a police inspection at his place had told them that yes, Harry hadn’t been home in more than a week. They opened a missing person case, and the weeks became two, three, and then four, without a single lead.

Zayn knows the police has literally zero hopes of ever finding Harry Styles, dead or alive, because Niall is a proper detective (which is nice, because it gives Zayn and Liam a little bit more freedom to act in their own jobs). So Zayn and Liam knew about Harry Styles even before his parents hired them through the agency. Zayn had been tempted to not even accept the case, because Harry was probably dead in a ditch or out of the country, vanished without a trace, so what good could he and Liam do?

But Anne Twist had then looked at Zayn in the eyes. “I _know_ my son is here and alive,” she’d just said, and Zayn had honestly never seen someone so _firm_ in their belief. Mothers always tend to be quite scary when it’s about their children, but Anne Twist was a whole other kind of scary that day.

It wasn’t just like she wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was more like she really, truly _knew_ the answer couldn’t be no.

Zayn and Liam had accepted the case.

They gathered more useless info about Harry. They talk to his parents quite frequently, and to his sister as well. His sister knows more about Harry than his parents. She told them that Harry was the prodigy child, wonder boy, all that, except he wasn’t, because he’d started being very snappy and nervous about stupid shit about two years earlier, he always looked like he was uncomfortable, about to cry or have a breakdown, but whenever Gemma asked him what the fuck was going on with him, he never spoke. Which was the weirdest thing, because they all were used to Harry going to Gemma whenever he had a problem, however small.

Liam had been the one advancing the hypothesis of a drug addiction to Gemma Styles, who had just shaken her head, her gaze as sure as her mother’s, as she told him and Zayn that no, Harry would _never_ get sucked into a drug problem, there was just no way.

They hadn’t discarded the hypothesis like that, of course, but Gemma had that gaze, the gaze that said she was just too fucking sure of what she was saying, so there was a small part of Zayn that believed her.

Zayn sighs that afternoon, staring at a couple more recent pictures of Harry that Gemma found and sent them. The contrast with the pictures they got from Anne, dated to two years prior, is evident.

It’s not like Harry Styles stopped being fit, because Zayn can admit to himself that he’s one of the fittest fucking blokes he’s ever seen. But while, two years earlier, he looked careless and happy, dimples digging deep in his cheeks and the sparkling of laughter always present in his green eyes, the more recent ones have something… _off_ about them.

Harry still has long hair in those pics, although they can’t be sure he didn’t cut it, wherever he went. Either way, the hair is still long and curly and it looks like it’s silky in the photos, and his eyes are still very green. But there’s always a bruise, whether it be on his cheek, his jaw, the side of his neck or a shoulder peeking out from under one of his flashy shirts. Harry still smiles, but not as brightly, the dimples rarely showing up. In some pics, he’s sporting bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in forever.

Those are the most recent pics of Harry they have. _Something definitely happened to this bloke_ , Zayn thinks for the umpteenth time as he stares down at them. He’s become a tiny bit obsessed with Harry Styles, not that he’d ever say it out loud.

There’s one pic where Harry’s hugging his best mate Louis.

Louis Tomlinson would have been the first person Zayn would have spoken to, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s disappeared as well. He hasn’t exactly vanished into thin air like Harry, because Tomlinson has a job as a work-from-home translator, and he still does that or so his company has told Zayn and Liam, but he’s moved out of the place he shared with his long-time girlfriend, Eleanor, and nobody knows exactly _where_ he moved to. His boss even gave the police—and Zayn and Liam—Louis’s bank account, but there's currently no registered address in it, and that had meant another dead end.

Liam had a theory that Harry and Louis were lovers and just ran away together, because apparently Louis Tomlinson broke up with Eleanor out of the blue, shortly before disappearing with Harry, but Zayn knows that can’t be it. Harry is out of the closet as bi with his family, so there would have been literally no reason for him to conceal a relationship with a man to the point that he had to vanish, even if he and Tomlinson had really been lovers behind Eleanor’s back. It’s too much, too thought-out, and Louis did break up with Eleanor, so after that there was even less of a need to hide. Besides, Zayn doesn’t exactly know how to explain it, but Harry and Louis don’t look _that kind_ of affectionate in their pics. Best mates, yes. As close as actual brothers, sure. Lovers? Not really.

Gemma Styles agrees, she says there’s just no fucking way Harry and Louis were lovers. Apparently, Louis Tomlinson was asking Gemma for advice on which engagement ring to buy for Eleanor, before abruptly breaking up with her and vanishing.

Whatever their relationship, though, Louis Tomlinson is nowhere to be found as well. Niall has run a search on him from the precinct, too, and he hasn’t found any other legal domicile for him apart from his old address, the small apartment he shared with Eleanor and from which he moved out shortly before Harry Styles disappeared. The two have to be connected. Zayn just doesn’t know _how_ yet.

As Zayn stares at the picture of Harry with Louis, his eyes fall a bit guiltily over Harry’s naked torso. Zayn knows Harry Styles is fit, but sometimes he actually forgets it, until he’s hit with a view of his defined abs and pecs, or of the stupid tattoos scattered along his arm and chest and stomach. Every muscle on Harry’s body looks so fucking defined, and Zayn hasn’t gotten laid in an awfully long time, because he kinda wishes he could run his tongue over all those smooth but hard plains and valleys, and… “He’s _fit_ ,” he realizes.

Liam snorts from where he’s sitting in front of Zayn. They’re at Zayn’s dining table, where they usually settle when they work from home and not from their office at the agency. “Zed? It might be a tiny bit unprofessional to drool over pics of a client. Well, a client’s son, but still.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and sighs. “No, no, I mean, he’s literally _fit_ , Leeyum, right? Like, these… _muscles_ can’t just grow out of nowhere, yeah? He has to work out!”

Liam frowns and stares down at the picture. “I suppose? Like, he’s got broad shoulders, and those might just be his build. But you’re right, the arms and the chest look like he works out, and a lot, even. What are you thinking?”

“A gym!” Zayn exclaims. “Maybe he has a subscription to some gym? It might be a lead?”

Zayn doesn’t wait for Liam’s reply, because he knows they don’t have any other lead, so they have to milk every possibility for what it’s worth. So he scrambles for his phone, and dials Gemma Styles’s number.

As he waits for her to pick up, Zayn starts to feel a dull ache in his knuckles. He rolls his eyes as faint, pink bruises bloom on both his hands, in the shape of small flowers. Zayn stares at them. They look like roses, this time.

You don’t exactly feel the blow your soulmate gets, when you get the flower bruises. But you feel the same kind of pain of the bruises they get afterwards, so Zayn knows his soulmate recently punched something—or _someone_ , Jesus, he can’t be sure about that. Liam sighs. “Again? What the fuck’s your bloke even doing lately?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “How would I know? And, not my bloke. I don’t even know who he is. I only know that I like it more when the bruises are just hickeys rather than _actual_ wounds.”

Liam laughs openly at that, and Zayn does too, despite it all. “Hello?” Gemma Styles finally answers her phone.

“Oh, hello, miss Styles,” Zayn says. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I have, um, a question.”

Gemma sighs. “We hired you to answer _our_ questions, Zayn,” she comments, but without heat. Zayn quite likes Gemma and her witty retorts, and he sometimes wonders if her brother is anything like her. “What do you need? And stop calling me ‘miss Styles’. Makes me feel even older than I already am.”

Zayn chuckles. “Sorry. Anyway. You never mentioned this, but I was wondering if Harry worked out? Like, at a gym?”

Gemma hums. “Yeah? I didn’t tell you because he stopped going like a month ago, said that he could work out from home. But he used to go to this gym called _Pegasus_ , it’s here in Leeds, downtown.”

Zayn nods, noting down the name of the gym. “Was he consistent in going? Could there be people in the gym who know him?”

Gemma chuckles. “Yeah, like, everybody. He used to go every fucking morning there. It was the first place where I looked for him, even though he’d stopped going, as I said. He wasn’t there. Nobody had seen him for a month,” she tells Zayn, her tone getting more and more demised as she speaks.

Zayn sighs. “Okay. We might need to check that too. Thanks, Gemma.”

“Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you…” her voice breaks, so she clears her throat and speaks again. “Do you honestly think Harry’s alive? Be honest with me. I’m not my Mum. I can take it.”

Zayn thinks very carefully about what to say, but then he decides that Gemma needs to hear the truth. In case they never find her brother again. “I think he’s alive,” he says honestly. “But I also think he doesn’t wanna be found.”

Zayn clearly hears Gemma gulp down. “Then maybe we should just stop? Leave him… leave him alone?” she murmurs, her voice shaking.

“No,” Zayn says surely. “Because even if he doesn’t want to be found, you and the rest of his family will never stop looking for him, and he must know. So if he wants to be left alone, he should have said so, instead of fucking off. _You_ need a reason for that. Me and Liam are here to help you find that reason.”

Gemma chuckles. “You sound quite pissed at him. Good,” she comments. “Maybe when you find him, I’ll let you have your turn at beating the shit out of him. After I do that myself, that is.”

Zayn looks at the pink flowers on his knuckles. They hurt, although not as much as the blow on his cheekbone hurt that morning. “Nah. You can do that yourself. I’ll just make sure to be as quick as possible in finding him so that you can finally let out your sibling rage.”

Gemma laughs a more honest laugh. “Cheers, Zayn. Let me know if you need anything else, as usual.”

“Will do. Bye for now, Gemma.”

When the call is over, Liam sighs. “There are literally _no_ guarantees that we’re even gonna find this bloke, Zayn. You shouldn’t sound so sure when you speak about it.”

“This family has already been told by the police that their son and brother is almost certainly dead in a ditch, Leeyum,” Zayn replies seriously. “If I can give ‘em a little bit of hope, I’ll do that, until I myself will be convinced that he’s dead in that ditch. For now, I know that Harry Styles is here and alive. I just need to figure out _where_ ,” he adds, staring at Harry’s picture.

Liam doesn’t reply for a moment. “We gotta wait for tomorrow to go to the gym, it’s already closed now, I just checked,” he informs Zayn closing his laptop screen. “Which means it’s time to stop working and start getting ready. We’re going dancing tonight. You need to get laid before all the sex you get comes from your soulmate,” he grins, pointing at Zayn’s face.

Right on cue, Zayn feels a soreness in his neck, and he doesn’t need to _look_ at the new flower to know that it’s the colour of a hickey. He can _feel_ the throbbing of his skin, the same kind of throbbing he feels after someone latches their lips on his skin and sucks. Sometimes he wishes he could feel _all_ of it, and not just the ache that comes afterwards.

Zayn feels his face get warm, and masks it by rolling his eyes and standing up to go take a shower and get dressed. _What the fuck is this bloke doing? Fighting and fucking all the time?_

+

Liam is right to be so faithful in Zayn’s pulling abilities, because he has to admit that it takes him no time to down a drink and then going to the dance floor, where he finds himself grinding his hips against the ones of a fit, tall bloke whose name Zayn doesn’t know and doesn’t particularly want to.

The guy has blonde hair, cut short at the sides and on the back, and a quiff on top of his head which now has crumbled down a little with sweat, the locks falling into his eyes as he and Zayn keep dancing, keep groping. Zayn drives his fingers through the lad’s hair, combing it backwards, and when he does that, the guy wastes no time. He surges forward, kissing Zayn quite harshly.

It’s not the best kiss Zayn’s gotten, not even close, but Zayn doesn’t want a snog, after all. He grabs the guy by the hips, and whispers something in his ear about going to the loo. The guy agrees enthusiastically, and a minute later they’re both stumbling towards the men’s restroom, and Zayn is hard in his jeans.

The lights in the restroom allow Zayn to take a better look at the bloke. His nose is not that proportioned and his eyes are a bit too close to one another, but his shoulders are broad and his chest looks defined under the too tight shirt, so Zayn doesn’t feel like being picky.

They lock themselves in a stall, still snogging. “I’m Adam, by the way,” the bloke rasps as he travels with his lips on Zayn’s neck.

Zayn chuckles. “Nice to meet you. ‘S Zayn,” he replies.

That’s about all the conversation they have before they fuck standing against the tiles. Zayn would very much like to bottom, but Adam seems to be of his same mind, and there’s a bit of an awkward moment when they decide who will top.

Zayn wins, and he has to suppress a chuckle as he helps Adam roll on a condom, and the moment later they’re fucking, Zayn’s legs wrapped around Adam’s waist as they both go at it fast and hard.

It’s right when they’re both close that Zayn looks at his own knuckles, covered in flower bruises, while he digs his nails into Adam’s shoulders. He thinks his fucking soulmate never gets as many flowers as Zayn does because of him, so Zayn might as well repay him now.

He slowly grabs one of Adam’s hands from where it’s holding him by the waist, and brings it to his own back, under his shirt. “I’ve got a bit of a pain kink,” Zayn says, kinda lying.

It’s not that he doesn’t. It’s just that he isn’t doing it for the kink, now.

Adam seems to almost come just with that, which is a bit of a stretch if you ask Zayn, because this quickie in the loo is far from being an incredible sexual performance. As it is, Adam doesn’t question it, and while he comes and Zayn brings himself off by jerking himself in between their bodies, Adam runs his nails along Zayn’s back, scratching at the skin. Zayn feels the burn of the four parallel lines on his back, and he comes. Adam comes too, shooting in the condom and then immediately lowering Zayn to the floor again, like it took all his strength to hold him up for such a long— _five fucking minutes, Jesus Christ_ , Zayn rolls his eyes—time.

As they both pant and smile awkwardly while tucking themselves back in, Zayn winces at the pain in his back, and then grins. _I hope you enjoy_ my _fucking flowers_ , he tells his soulmate.

Adam might not be a sex machine, but he’s quite nice, because he makes sure he didn’t hurt Zayn too much afterwards, when he sees him grimace as they both wash their hands.

Zayn chuckles. “Nah, babe, ‘s all good, I asked for it, didn’t I? Listen, my friend’s…”

Adam’s phone goes off, and he sighs, holding a finger for Zayn and then answering the call. Zayn honestly just wanted to tell him cheers and goodbye, because now that he’s gotten laid—it wasn’t mind-blowing, but at least it was _something_ —he just wants to go back to drinking with Liam, but Adam clearly asked him to wait before they part ways, and he doesn’t wanna be rude.

“Yeah?” Adam says into the phone. Zayn busies himself with drying his hands with a paper towel he rips from a dispenser nailed to the tiled wall of the bathroom, next to the sinks.

Adam hums. “Yeah, I’m, like, I’m on my way. Did you already put our usual amount on the Cheshire Cat? Yeah, good lad. I swear, betting on Harry Styles winning those fights is a more stable income than my fucking job,” he says, and Zayn almost has a heart attack. “On my way, lad. See you in thirty.”

Zayn gulps down, his stomach lurching and his mind going a mile a minute. _Harry Styles? Fights?_

Adam clears his throat. “So, like… thanks?” he tells Zayn, embarrassed.

Zayn is definitely _more_ interested in Adam now. It’s not like he can let him leave. “No problem,” he replies, schooling his face into neutrality. “Listen, were you… talking about box fights? Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You were just right here.”

Adam seems to be a bit uncomfortable, and he looks around, as if _now_ he needs to make sure no one’s listening more than when they were having sex in the stall. “Yeah?”

Zayn takes a breath. “Can I come with? Me and my friend? We, um, we’re new in town,” he says, pretending to nervously look around like Adam is. “We’ve been trying to find the underground fights for a while.”

Adam closes his eyes and clearly curses under his breath. “Listen, mate, this is, like, _not_ legal boxing,” he says in a whisper, getting closer to Zayn. “And they’re suspicious of outsiders, and…”

Zayn shakes his head. _You’re not fucking winning this, Adam_. “We know how to behave,” he lies. “We’ve been into this kind of thing for ages, back in our hometown. We just need you to show us where it is, then we can fend for ourselves. Nobody will even know you brought us there, I swear.”

Zayn blinks. He never thought much about his eyelashes or his looks in general, but his mother always says his eyelashes can make angels go to hell. Zayn hopes Trisha Malik is right, now. Adam stares at Zayn for a moment, and then sighs defeatedly. “Okay,” he concedes. “You come with me. I let you in. Then, we’re done. That okay?”

Zayn nods, smiling. “Let’s go fetch my friend and then we can go.”

Zayn grabs Adam by the shirt as they make their way back to Liam, who is drinking and amiably chatting with the bartender. Zayn’s too scared Adam will just leg it if he lets him go for just a moment. When they finally reach Liam, Liam frowns at the two of them, but Zayn just smiles angelically at him. “My friend here just solved that problem that we were talking about this afternoon,” he announces.

Adam hums, probably appreciating that Zayn isn’t saying anything explicit about illegal boxing matches.

Liam knows that the only problem they had this afternoon was Harry Styles, so it takes him just two seconds to pay for his drink, and then follow Adam and Zayn outside.


	2. The Cheshire Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That bloke,” Liam says, pointing at Harry who is still grinning and drinking his water, “looks like there’s no fucking place he’d rather be than on that ring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and the original characters.

The building is dirty, just a couple storeys, completely anonymous if not for a series of unsettling graffiti of monsters and the dark words _The Creek_ painted on a small, metal door.

Adam looks at Zayn and Liam. “Try to avoid real names, and fucking avoid _mine_. Don’t cause any trouble. If you do, please die rather than mention me. We’re done now,” he says, quite rudely, but Zayn can’t be arsed to care about that.

He just rolls his eyes. “We know the drill, lad, okay? As I said. It’s not our first time. Just our first time _here_.”

Adam nods, clearly meaning “Whatever” with his eyes, and then raps on the door in a rhythmic pattern of five knocks, which Zayn pays all his attention to so that he won’t forget in case they need to go back there.

Liam is frowning at him, probably still not understanding what the fuck they’re doing, but Zayn can’t tell him now when Adam’s there. The door opens onto a completely dark room, and all three of them step inside.

Zayn doesn’t see anyone at the door, only makes out a silhouette in the shadows, but the person quickly retreats. He can hear screams and music coming from some place downstairs, and he reflexively grabs Liam by the hand as they keep following Adam through the dark, down a flight of metal stairs which rattles under their feet.

When the steps are over, they’re in front of a smaller door. Adam gives them one last look. “Goodbye,” he says, and opens it, slipping past the threshold without holding it for them. By the time Zayn also opens the door, Adam has already vanished in the crowd.

There is a huge crowd there. Zayn has obviously never been to an illegal boxing match, but there’s no one fighting at the moment in the ring he can spot on the other side of the room. There’s a couple bars and music pumping loud through some speakers, and most people are dancing. The lighting is horrible, but Zayn reckons it also hides new faces like their own, so it’s fine.

It all looks like a very grungy club, and Zayn knows that’s a cover in case the police shows up. A disco, hosting illegal box matches.

“What the fuck are we doing here, Zed?” Liam asks him, his lips pressed to Zayn’s ear so that Zayn will hear him, but not anybody else.

Zayn sees that absolutely no one is paying them any mind. There are too many people, all sweaty and drunk and dancing, but he also knows that if Adam was so worried, it has to mean someone’s taking care of watching, guarding, making sure the club doesn’t get busted. So he wraps his arms around Liam’s neck, pretending to dance. “Dance, Leeyum,” he says in Liam’s ear.

Liam immediately obeys, because after all those years, he recognizes the urgency in Zayn’s tone. His arms go around Zayn’s middle.

“That guy I fucked, Adam,” Zayn says as quietly as he can, grateful for the loud bass of the music giving them some cover, “he received a call and I heard him ask his friend if he bet money on Harry Styles for an illegal boxing match. He’s here, Leeyum. His nickname is the Cheshire Cat. I pretended that we were new in town and looking for the underground fights, and he brought us here. We gotta look around and _find him_ , Liam. We’re close. We’re close to Harry Styles.”

Liam can’t fucking believe it, if his gaping expression is anything to go by, but he gets himself in check as fast as he can, nodding.

They keep pretending to dance for a while, until they inch towards one of the bars, slowly. It’s the one closest to the empty ring, and they both settle for a spot from which they have an unobstructed view of it. They order a beer, and Zayn feels the thrums of excitement course through his body, sending shivers down his spine. His skin still tingles from where Adam scratched it before.

The bartender, a lovely girl with olive skin and long, brown hair in a braid, introduces herself as Sophia, giving Liam a wink too. Liam blushes, because he’s been eyeing her for ten minutes already, and it makes Zayn’s eyes roll.

Sophia chuckles at the silent interaction. “Here for the Cat?” she asks, setting the two beers in front of them.

Zayn frowns. “What?”

The girl shrugs. “The Cheshire Cat. I’ve never seen you two before, and it’s a Wednesday. If you’re new and you’re in this shitty place in the middle of the week, my bet is that it’s ‘cause you heard today is one of the days in which the Cat fights.”

Zayn doesn’t deem it wise to deny it and attract more attention, so he nods. “Yeah. We heard he’s… quite the legend around here. Wanted to see for ourselves.”

Sophia laughs prettily. “If you’re lucky and he sees you, he might show you just _how much_ of a legend he is out of the ring as well,” she declares. “You got the cheekbones and the eyelashes. That’s pretty much the only weakness the Cat has, to my knowledge. And he’s always in… quite a mood, after a fight.”

She touches her own cheekbones and bats her long, thick eyelashes while she says that, and Zayn realizes why exactly she’s saying that with such a grin and such a confidence. _She fucked him. She said he goes on the pull when he gets out of the ring, and she’s been one of his pulls. Not anymore though. Maybe it was a one-time thing. She isn’t dating him or she wouldn’t be making jokes about him pulling_ me _next._

Zayn does his best to look embarrassed and bashful. “I ain’t even seen the lad yet,” he replies, because he should make sure he doesn’t look too much like he already _knows_ the Cat. “Maybe I’m not gonna want that.”

Sophia scoffs. “Everybody wants the Cat, love,” she declares.

Liam and Zayn are halfway through their beers when the music is reduced to barely a background track, and the crowd slowly walks up to the ring, surrounding it. They stay where they are, and Zayn scans the whole area. Where is he? _Let me see him. I wanna see him. I’m so close. I need to bring him home_.

Illegal boxing matches are nothing like the legal ones you can watch in the telly. There is no sign of any safety measure around the ring, no doctors or even a fucking first-aid kit in sight. Zayn reckons that there are also less rules. He sees some people go around, collecting money and giving out receipts. _They’re all betting_.

A bell rings, and a round, tall man shows up. “Please welcome one of our favourite fighters of all times, the Fox!” he says. Immediately, a tall but lean bloke with a head of red curls hops into the ring, clad in gym shorts and a tank top, waving at the crowd while the people politely clap. His hands are bare except for some bandages around his knuckles.

“It’s a fucking _bare-knuckled_ fight?” Liam hisses.

Sophia snorts from behind the bar. “They only fight bare-knuckled, here,” she tells them.

The host clears his throat. “And, on the other side of the ring, our undefeated champion, the Cheshire Cat!”

If the crowd was just politely clapping for the Fox, they immediately go wild for the Cat. Zayn gulps down some air and feels his stomach do a one eighty when he sees _him_ , Harry Styles, step out of the shadows on the right side of the ring and come into the light. He’s only wearing gym shorts, and his chest, the chest Zayn has fucking memorized in the last four weeks, is bare. So are his hands, except for the same knuckle bandages the other contender has. His hair is held up in a bun, and it looks like it’s still long.

His eyes are cold even as he smiles and waves at the crowd. There are no dimples in his cheeks when he does. Zayn can make out a purple bruise on one of his cheekbones, maybe the remnant of another fight. _That’s what he does, that’s why he was always covered in bruises, that’s why he wasn’t home at night. He’s been fighting on an illegal ring. But why did he disappear? What changed?_

Zayn doesn’t speak, and neither does Liam. They both stay there, speechless, as the host declares the match open, and none of the two fighters moves for a second.

They’re quite close to the ring, so Zayn doesn’t miss the grin, a bit smug and a bit amused, showing up on Harry Styles’s perfect lips and exposing two rows of white teeth. “You call yourself the Fox ‘cause you’re a ginger?” he asks the Fox as they both only circle each other, their hands in front of their faces in a defensive position.

The Fox grins back. “You call yourself the Cat ‘cause you’re just as lazy as them?”

Harry laughs. “Nah. Call myself the Cat ‘cause I love to scratch,” he replies, and throws a first blow.

It’s lazy at best, and the Fox ducks it easily, immediately counter-acting with a blow of his own.

Harry doesn’t duck, he just spins a little, jumping to the right and getting away from the Fox’s trajectory with a movement so fast Zayn almost loses his own balance on the stool. He holds himself to the table, his knuckles protesting in pain where they’re still marked by the flowers of his soulmate’s own fighting, and he hisses a little. Harry Styles chooses that moment to land a first real blow, catching the Fox right on the cheek, and then spinning again to avoid retaliation.

Zayn sees Harry’s back. It’s broad and free of tattoos, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. Because he can clearly see four red stripes on it, red bruises in the shape of lilies, running from the nape of his neck to the small of his spine. They’re fucking beautiful, and he now kinda understands Liam when he complains that Zayn’s bruises are cool.

They must have hurt Harry like a motherfucker, but they sure are a work of art on that broad back of his.

Zayn doesn’t know much about boxing, but he knows it’s an easy victory for Harry, when he lands just another couple blows and then hooks his ankle to the Fox’s, making the guy fall to the ground and pressing him there with his arms around his neck until the host slaps his own palm against the floor three times before urging them to separate. Harry lets immediately go of his grip, and the two of them walk to opposite corners of the ring.

There’s a man talking to the Fox, giving him water and a towel. There’s no one in Harry’s corner. He just bends down, retrieves a bottle and gulps it down by himself before grabbing a towel and wiping his face, neck and shoulders while the crowd screams and waves at him.

When he dabs at his own shoulders with the towel, he catches the lilies on his back, and Zayn clearly sees him wince and then roll his eyes. Zayn chuckles, wondering if Harry’s pissed at his soulmate like Zayn is at his own. _Has he found them? Does he know who they are? Maybe they have something to do with him disappearing?_ , he wonders.

The match resumes. The second part goes exactly as the first, with the Fox landing on the ground and Harry keeping him there. The third, and last, is a different matter.

Zayn can see Harry’s tired. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced when he steps clearly under the light on top of the ring, and he’s sweating more, his lips pressed in a thin line.

The Fox lands a couple harsher blows that catch Harry off guard, one to his cheek, and another to his stomach. Harry coughs at the last one, almost falling over, and the Fox uses the chance to deliver another blow right under Harry’s chin. Harry falls on his arse, panting while the crowd boos and gasps and screams. He looks up at the Fox like a deer caught in headlights.

Zayn has to do his best not to scream and stand up. They’re not gonna let him get _too_ hurt, are they? There _have_ to be safety measures for this kind of illegal things as well? His stomach hurts at the thought of Harry being about to receive a proper fucking beating, while Zayn is there watching.

It’s in that moment that Zayn sees Harry’s grin reappear, and the thinks that Cheshire Cat is indeed a fitting name, because the grin splits his face almost in two, and it’s not particularly menacing or bright, but it’s scary. There are the dimples as well, now, although Zayn finds that Harry’s real smile from the pics has never been further away from showing up in that moment.

Zayn shivers. Harry keeps grinning, keeps looking up at the Fox, until the Fox raises his leg as if to kick Harry in the chest while he's down. “Is this allowed?” Zayn can’t help but squeal.

Sophia snorts a laugh in Zayn’s face. “ _Everything’s_ allowed in these matches, except weapons other than your own body. These are the slums of Leeds, love. Everything’s always allowed,” she replies.

Zayn’s stomach is hurting more and more, going upside down.

The things is that Harry’s grinning for a reason, and the Fox never manages to land his kick. Because Harry rolls over, right in between the Fox’s legs, and the Fox stumbles when his foot catches an empty space instead of colliding with Harry’s body. Harry, in the meantime, is already behind him, standing. He taps the Fox on the shoulder with another grin, and Zayn shakes his head at the Fox’s stupidity when he just turns.

Harry’s there to receive him, punching him under his chin, in his stomach, on his shoulder in a rapid sequence, until the Fox is falling to the ground, where Harry keeps him pinned down by pressing a sneaker-clad foot on his sternum, not hard enough to do any damage, but enough to keep him there while the host slaps his palm on the floor.

The crowd goes wild. Zayn watches as Harry slowly bends over, untying his bun so that his hair cascades free around his face, on top of the Fox who is now staring up at him.

Zayn can’t see Harry’s face, but he sees his hand. Harry places his nails on the Fox’s throat, and scratches down, hissing like a cat would and perfectly audible in the anticipating silence of the audience. It’s not a hard scratch, because the Fox doesn’t even grimace, but Harry’s nails do leave four red lines along the column of his throat. The crowd goes wild at what Zayn understands must be the Cat’s signature move when he wins.

After that, the host declares the Cheshire Cat has won, and immediately, Harry lets go of his opponent and stretches a hand out for him. The Fox takes it surely, chuckling and patting Harry on the back.

Harry winces when the Fox’s palm collides with the lily-shaped bruises on his back, and the Fox laughs, letting him go and hopping off the ring.

Zayn feels like he just ran a mile. He feels waves of nausea rise up his throat, his stomach closing off painfully, his whole face throb for no reason while he thinks that Harry Styles could get a proper fucking beating one of these nights, and he could not stand up from that fucking ring ever again.

_Everything’s allowed here_ , Sophia has said.

“Liam,” he just says. He doesn’t even know what he plans on actually telling him, but Liam is equally shocked, because he nods.

“Yeah, Zed,” he just murmurs. “It’s fucking bad. And do you wanna know what the worst thing is?” he adds after making sure Sophia is busy on the other side of the bar now that the crowd is abandoning the ring.

“What?” Zayn sighs.

“That bloke,” Liam says, pointing at Harry who is still grinning and drinking his water, “looks like there’s no fucking place he’d rather be than on that ring.”

Zayn stares at Harry while Liam says that. The thing is that Harry might be winning and grinning, but Zayn still thinks it’s kinda fake, because he _knows_ Harry’s real smile, the one with the dimples, and that’s not what he’s seeing in that moment. _Is he really happy to be doing this? Why?_

Zayn is so caught up in his staring at Harry that it takes him a moment to understand Harry’s staring right back at him. He’s still on his corner of the ring, still gulping down his water, drinking from the bottle in greedy slurps and not caring that most of it is running down his chin and neck and chest, and Zayn gets a little bit distracted by all _that_ before he realizes Harry has turned his head, and he’s staring at Zayn.

Zayn makes sure he’s really looking at _him_ by turning around to see if there are any other people in Harry’s line of sight, but there aren’t, and when he turns back to look at Harry again, Harry’s smirking, as if he understood Zayn’s confusion perfectly, and he finds it amusing.

“Zed? I think he’s fucking staring at you and now he’s coming here,” Liam declares in a whisper, as if it wasn’t blatantly obvious already. Harry has jumped off the ring, sliding gracefully in-between the ropes surrounding it, and he’s walking over to the bar with his towel draped on his shoulders, his eyes still fixed on Zayn while he walks and walks with a lazy swagger, wearing some rings he probably took off before the match, sliding them surely on his own fingers without looking at them. Without looking at anything other than _Zayn_.

Zayn thinks that he should be scared, because Harry looks like a fucking predator waiting to attack in that moment, but he finds that he isn’t scared.

He’s actually the opposite of scared, he realizes. He’s _hard_ in his jeans, shamefully so, and he doesn’t even know for _how long_ he’s been like that.

_Stop it. It’s your clients’ son. It’s a case. You’re working_ , he tells himself.

Harry stops at the bar, circles it without interrupting his eye contact with Zayn until they’re side to side at the counter. Only then does Harry avert his eyes and fucking pretends the whole eye-fucking thing never happened as he leans over the bar a little. “Soph! Got some orange juice for me?” he asks, shouts.

Zayn snorts. He shouldn’t, but he can’t fucking help it, because Harry looks so badass with his boxing fights and intense staring and signature scratches, that the thought he just wants to drink orange juice is frankly quite ridiculous.

Zayn _feels_ Harry turning to look at him, although he keeps his eyes on his beer and Liam, whose eyes are wide in his face.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asks.

Zayn sighs and sways a little in his stool to turn as well and face Harry. He thought he’d find a stern glance and cold eyes, but the truth is that Harry’s mouth is quirked upwards like he’s finding it funny as well, and there’s a glint in his eyes, with crinkles all around them like he laughs a lot.

Zayn decides to grin too. It comes surprisingly easy. “Dunno,” he shrugs. “You were up there kicking arse, was expecting you to order straight whiskey or vodka or something equally… manly.”

Harry smirks. It’s a dangerous kind of smirk, a good answer to Zayn’s equally dangerous comment. Harry leans over, so that his mouth is close, _very close_ to Zayn’s ear. “The thing is, pretty lil’ thing,” he whispers, and Zayn feels that voice right in his dick, “that some people are _manly_ when they drink, while others are _manly_ when they fuck. I think I’m the latter. Wanna see?”

It’s so fucking _filthy_ , the sentence, when it leaves Harry’s mouth, that Zayn is tempted for an absurd second to gasp indignantly and slap his hand across Harry’s cheek. Of course, he doesn’t. He gulps down and pretends to be unfazed. “I don’t know. You must be all tired now. Besides, I quite like a _manly_ fuck, but all this sweat would be too much even for that, I’m afraid,” he replies, scrunching his nose at Harry.

Harry barks a laugh. Zayn isn’t expecting that, he honestly expects Harry to just shrug and turn to the next person who will be more than glad to give it to him, but Harry just laughs hard, hand on his stomach, and his dimples are right _there_ for Zayn to look at them now.

Sophia, who doesn’t even know why Harry’s laughing, just laughs too as she hands him a tall glass of orange juice as he requested, before going back to the other side of the bar where a long line of customers is ordering drinks.

“He’s batshit,” Liam whispers in Zayn’s ear. “Wasn’t even _that_ funny.”

Harry sees Liam speaking into Zayn’s ear, and he sobers up immediately, narrowing his eyes a little but not commenting. He just clears his throat, gulps down the juice in three long sips, and then stands up from the stool, staring at Zayn. “If I get off the _excessive sweat_ ,” he says candidly, speaking in Zayn’s ear again, “will you let me see what you think is a _manly_ fuck?”

Zayn doesn’t know what to reply. It’s obvious, that Harry wants to fuck him. It’s equally obvious that Zayn would already be on his fucking knees for Harry if they met under different, very different, circumstances. What’s obvious as well, though, is that he _found_ Harry Styles, and he doesn’t want to let him go, let him leave, not yet.

So he grins at Harry. “You shower,” he whispers, more in Harry’s neck than in his ear, just because he can hide his face like that, and maybe the fucking _hammering_ of his heart as well. “The rest we can talk about.”

Harry hums. Zayn hears Liam curse under his breath, but he doesn’t pay him any mind, he can’t, not if he doesn’t want Harry Styles to lose his interest and fucking vanish into thin air again.

Harry seems to ponder the matter in his head for a moment, and then he sighs dramatically. “Okay, pretty lil’ thing,” he says at last. Harry takes one of his rings off, a chunky piece with a rose engraved on it, and hands it to Zayn. “Then join me by the lockers in about twenty minutes. Show this to the bouncers, they’ll let you through. You got a special fucking pass tonight. Ain’t you happy?” he adds, winking, and then turns his back on Zayn without waiting for a reply.

Zayn doesn’t know why he says what he says, but he opens his mouth and speaks, because he never did well with dares, and he feels too much like something Harry just got his eyes on and now plans to get his hands on as well. “Cat?” he calls him, barely managing not to blow his cover by calling him with his _real_ name.

Harry turns with a grin. “Yeah?”

“I’m not a _thing_ ,” Zayn clarifies, balling his fist around the ring Harry gave him. “If you want a pretty lil’ _thing_ , then look somewhere else.”

Harry blinks. For a wild moment, Zayn thinks that he sees Harry’s face fall a little, like he realized how rude he’s been and wants to apologize. Then, of course, he doesn’t do any of that, and he just raises his hands in surrender with another grin. “My bad, my bad. Feisty, ain’t you?”

Zayn shrugs. “You’re not the only one with claws.”

Harry laughs. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” he replies. Then he hisses and hooks his fingers in the air, mimicking a cat’s scratch. He grins again, turning and walking away.

Zayn tries not to get completely rock-hard just with the promise of being shown just _how much_ the Cheshire Cat likes to scratch. He thinks about the scratches he has on his own back, and shifts uncomfortably in his stool, shaking his head and trying to think about a way to get the fuck out of the situation he just dived in without a safety net.

“Well, fuck,” Liam declares.

Zayn nods. “Yeah.”

+

Liam almost has a coronary when Zayn tells him he’ll take Harry up on his offer of meeting him in the locker room, and Zayn has to do his best not to let him throw a strop in front of the whole club.

After a while, he manages to convince Liam that _of course_ he doesn’t want to go and fuck Harry Styles. He doesn’t say that he’d very much like to, because Liam probably knows that as well. Zayn tells him that this is their occasion of fucking _understanding_ what happened to Harry and bring him home, but they have to proceed slowly and carefully if they don’t wanna scare him like a stray cat.

Liam agrees in the end, telling Zayn he’ll wait for him at the bar, and Zayn nods, walking towards the door leading to the back rooms Harry vanished through twenty minutes earlier.

Zayn is obsessively clutching at the rose ring Harry gave him, hoping it’ll be enough to really make the bouncers let him through.

The bouncers are two very tall, very large men, standing right at the door. They’re only wearing jeans and t-shirts, not suits like you would expect _real_ bouncers to be wearing in _real_ clubs, but they look even more menacing than those. Zayn suddenly feels very small and scrawny.

“Hi. I, um, I gotta see the Cat,” Zayn tells them.

He didn’t need to worry, because they just grin at him. “You got the ring?” one of them asks.

Zayn wonders how many people have held onto that ring and the promise of a good locker room fuck at the hands of Harry Styles before. Nonetheless, he nods, and shows them the rose ring.

They frown. “He never gives them the rose one,” the second bouncer muses. Zayn hates the way he says _them_.

The first guard shrugs. “Yeah. Well, it’s the Cat’s ring anyway.”

They nod at each other and then at Zayn, and just like that, they move to let Zayn through, without another word.

Zayn nods back, and steps over the threshold. He finds himself in a dark corridor, but it’s quite short, and he can see harsh white lights filter through another door at the end, so he goes for that, hoping it’s the right one.

It is, because as soon as Zayn gets there, he realizes the door is half open, and he hears Harry’s voice. “’S alright, Greg, really, it’s not as bad as you think it is,” he’s saying. “You just need to, like, put in more quotes, in the places I circled. The only problem you have with this paper is that sometimes you state things like they’re facts, but you don’t provide sources and proofs of what you’re saying, right? So you need to do that. For the rest, it’s really good.”

The person called Greg sighs. “Cheers, Harry. You’re fucking saving my arse, mate. Sometimes I wonder why the fuck you’re here fighting instead of being a teacher in some fancy uni or summat.”

Harry laughs. “Then who the fuck would fight the Fox, huh?”

“Did you really have to mention me being a ginger right before the match?” Greg— _the Fox_ —whines. “You know how I hate that.”

“Serves you right, for talking shit about my brand new beautiful flowers on my back.”

Greg laughs. “They do look cool, I’ll admit it. You reckon your soulmate’s up to some kinky stuff?”

“Maybe they are,” Harry replies. “They haven’t gotten laid in fucking ages, if you ask me. Or at least they didn’t do anything particularly… crazy. Not even a fucking hickey, poor bloke or bird. So I’m glad if they got some at last.”

Greg hums. “Well, even if they didn’t, I’m sure they’re fucking covered in flowers for all the shit _you_ do.”

“D’you mean the fighting or the fucking?” Zayn can feel the grin in Harry’s tone.

“Both, you slag,” Greg replies, but it’s good-natured. “Sometimes I feel a little bad for our soulmates, you know. They must be sore all the time.”

“Well, when I finally meet mine, I’ll tell you who they are so you can say sorry to them. Those blows you gave me tonight fucking _hurt_ , mate. My soulmate’s about to get one _massive_ bruise on their stomach for sure, in a couple hours when _my_ own bruise will form.”

Greg whines sarcastically. “Poor you and your soulmate. Mine’s just gotten _all_ the bruises and even the scratches on the neck. So _you_ will have to say sorry to _mine_ when I find her.”

Harry just laughs. “Get the fuck away now. Get some rest and then finish the fucking paper. I wanna read it over again tomorrow.”

Greg hums. “Yeah, alright. I’m fucking knackered. You gonna get some rest too? Louis and Delilah okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. They’re home upstairs, of course. Probably already asleep, Dilly’s still sick. I have a date and then I’ll go,” Harry replies, and Zayn can perfectly picture his smug grin.

_He lives here, upstairs, I found out where he fucking lives. Who’s Delilah? Dilly’s a nickname for Delilah. Does he live with this girl and Louis Tomlinson here? Why?_ , Zayn’s brain rages.

Greg hums again. “Okay then. Give Dilly a kiss from me. See you tomorrow, Haz. Fuck, you fucking _destroyed_ me,” he comments with a groan while Harry snickers.

Zayn realizes that the lad called Greg is walking towards the door where he’s been eavesdropping for about five minutes now, so he quickly takes some steps back and then pretends to have just gotten there.

It’s really the Fox, ginger hair and all, and he’s even fucking taller up close. He looks down at Zayn with a surprisingly kind smile, and doesn’t say anything. He just walks by, but before going, he turns back and gives Zayn a thumbs up. _Like I fucking_ won _something and he’s congratulating me_ , he thinks with an eyeroll.

Zayn knocks on the half opened door, but Harry doesn’t answer. Zayn waits for a handful of seconds, and then gets inside anyway.

He should have expected it, that Harry doesn’t even give him time to look around before crowding him against the door and shutting it by pushing Zayn’s back against it, and then his lips are on Zayn’s, his hands roaming on his sides, his tongue plunging into Zayn’s mouth when Zayn opens it on a weak protest.

Zayn shouldn’t, but he gives in. Harry’s lips feel so nice, the kiss is so much better than those pitiful attempts at snogging with Adam in the club, and Zayn has been nursing a boner for Harry Styles even _before_ meeting him in the flesh, if he can be completely honest with himself.

Harry groans when Zayn goes pliant against him. He’s only wearing his underwear, and Zayn’s hands splay over miles and miles of skin when they rest on Harry’s back and shoulders. Harry groans, and Zayn remembers he has bruises on his back from his soulmate, much like Zayn also has scratches which are bothering him a little on his own back.

“So fucking pretty,” Harry mutters on Zayn’s lips. He bucks his hips against Zayn’s, and Zayn feels how hard they both already are, but _no no no what the fuck am I even doing, I can’t do this, I can’t_.

He heaves a frustrated sigh, and slowly grabs Harry’s shoulders, pushing him away, even if only slightly, and interrupting the kiss.

Harry’s panting. His face is flushed, and Zayn notices a lot of details he didn’t manage to catch earlier with the shitty lighting of the club. He has a fading bruise on his right cheekbone. A hickey on the side of his neck, standing there purple and quite deep. His hands, with which he’s now grabbing at Zayn’s hips in an attempt to be closer again, are big and bruised on the knuckles.

Zayn frowns. Why do those bruises look _familiar_?

“What do you wanna do, pretty lil’ thing?” Harry smirks, low in his throat, which almost makes Zayn come on the spot.

Zayn feels like his judgement has never been so clouded. The only thing he wants to do is to sink on his knees in front of Harry and take him into his mouth, show him that he’s not a _thing_ , ruin him, reduce him to a whimpering mess with things other than fists and punches and kicks.

“I’m not a thing,” he just replies, and he knows it sounds ragged and kinda needy, but he can’t help it.

Harry chuckles. “I know, I know. Sorry about that. I…”

A phone goes off. Harry had gotten closer again, ready to probably snog Zayn into oblivion again, and he takes one longing look at Zayn’s mouth, which makes Zayn shiver, but then Harry reluctantly lets him go and turns his back on him, muttering a curse and scavenging in a pile of clothes on a bench, looking for the ringing device.

“Lou?” he says when he answers the call.

_Louis Tomlinson_ , Zayn thinks as he stares at Harry’s back and tries to gather his bearings, thinking about a way to _not_ have sex with Harry Styles but still be able to see him again.

Harry’s shoulders tense, and the lily-shaped bruises shift and ripple on his toned skin.

It’s four lines, like his soulmate got scratched right there. He told the Fox that he thinks it was during sex, and that his soulmate hadn’t gotten any, recently.

It hits Zayn like a physical kick to the gut, and his breath punches out of him in an uneven gasp. Harry hears it, because he turns to look at Zayn with a small frown as he keeps listening to what his friend is saying on the phone.

Zayn stares at Harry. He stares at the hickey on his neck, the bruise on his cheekbone, his grazed knuckles. There’s a bruise forming on his stomach as well, the consequence of the Fox’s punch during the match. Harry frowns again, and then turns. “We still have cough syrup left, yeah?” he asks in the receiver. “Ah, fuck, it’s already over? Fucking hell, goes like water, those bottles are so fucking small. Okay.”

Zayn stares down at his own knuckles, now adorned by small, rose-shaped bruises. He knows he has a tiny anemone on his neck, and the azalea on his cheekbone has almost faded, but not quite. He hasn’t looked at the marks Adam left on his back, but he knows that they’re four lines, because he felt Adam’s nails scratch into his skin quite clearly.

Harry’s still talking on the phone, in a hushed tone, and he’s not paying Zayn much attention, so Zayn quickly raises his shirt. He’s got a big flower blooming on his stomach, defined in reds and purples among his normal tattoos.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck_ , he thinks frantically.

“Okay, yeah. Yeah, I’ll go get the syrup and I’ll be right back, don’t worry,” Harry says, and ends the call.

Zayn immediately lowers his shirt, but Harry catches the movement as well, and he smirks, walking over to Zayn with a sigh. “I’m afraid you can’t get naked with me just yet, pretty lil’ thing,” he says. “Gotta go home. Family emergency.”

Zayn frowns. _You’re lying. Your family doesn’t even fucking know where you are_ , he wants to answer.

Harry chuckles. “Don’t be so bummed,” he tells Zayn, pressing his thumb in the middle of Zayn’s lips, where he’s probably half gaping, half panting, half about to cry at the realization he just had.

“I’m not a thing,” Zayn replies, for what feels like the umpteenth time that night.

Harry smirks. “I know, I know,” he concedes. “But I’ll call you my pretty lil’ thing anyway,” he adds with a grin.

Zayn opens his mouth to reply, but he never manages, because Harry leans forward and kisses him again, hard and fast, even though it only lasts a couple moments. When he pulls away, Zayn wants to follow his mouth with his own, but he manages to keep himself plastered to the door even though his back— _my back with the four scratches I can see in the shape of lilies on_ his _back_ —fucking hurts.

Harry chuckles. “You still got my ring?”

Zayn nods, kinda dumbly he’s sure. He takes the ring out of his pocket.

Harry shakes his head, and closes Zayn’s fingers around it, pushing Zayn’s hand against his own chest. “Keep it. Come again tomorrow night. Watch me fight an _actual_ fight, and not just a friend of mine in a couple amicable punches.”

_A couple amicable punches? You’ve got fucking bruises all over. And I do too._

Harry seems oblivious to Zayn’s astonishment. “And after I win, come back here,” he says, barely whispers it on Zayn’s lips. “We can pick this up where I sadly have to leave it. What do you say, pretty lil’ thing?”

Zayn gulps down some air. _This is good. I don’t have to fuck him. But I can come back. Just like I was planning._ “I’m not a thing. You don’t even know my name. And I don’t know yours.”

Harry grins. “What’s your name, pretty lil’ thing?”

“Zayn Malik,” he replies, without even bothering to correct Harry again.

Harry nods, and noses at Zayn’s jaw. Zayn feels it a bit sore, and he wonders if Harry will get a bruise on his jaw from the fighting, because he knows he’ll get a matching flower for that as well. “’S a cute name,” Harry says, still in a whisper. His movements are slow now, like he really doesn’t want to let Zayn go. “My name’s Harry. Harry Styles.”

“Nice to meet you, then,” Zayn retorts.

Harry chuckles, and then sighs. “I really gotta go now. Keep my ring safe, yeah? ‘S my favourite. I usually don’t give it to just anybody.”

Zayn laughs, and despite it all, he can’t keep a remark at bay. “I bet you say that to everyone.”

Harry’s eyes are more serious and focused than they’ve ever been when he raises his face and looks at Zayn. “No, I don’t,” he just replies.

Zayn shivers. “Okay. Then I’ll make extra sure I don’t lose it. Wouldn’t want you to beat the shit out of me. I don’t think I’ve ever thrown a serious punch in my life.”

Harry laughs. “Don’t worry, pretty lil’ thing,” he says. “I’ve already thrown serious punches for both of us.”

_You have no fucking idea how right you are_ , Zayn thinks, but of course doesn’t say. “I’m not a thing.”

Harry grins. “You ain’t, I know,” he concedes, even though Zayn knows it’s definitely not the last time he’ll hear Harry call him like that.

Zayn nods. “I’ll go, then. See you tomorrow, Harry Styles,” he says, and he can’t help but shift his hips a little bit against Harry’s, to make him move and to make him feel just how fucking hard they both still are.

Harry’s eyes roll back in his head, and he counters Zayn’s movement with his own, until their crotches rub together for a short moment. “You gotta go now,” Harry groans, “before I fucking lose it.”

_Maybe I want you to_ , Zayn thinks, and feels a bit ashamed with himself. He gulps down the excessive amount of saliva his mouth is producing. “Gotta let me go if you want me to go,” he retorts, trying to sound harsh and nonchalant, shrugging to point out the fact Harry’s still caging him against the door.

Harry chuckles. “Right. Feisty, ain’t you,” he mutters, finally setting Zayn free from the absurdly broad and _hot_ prison of his torso.

Zayn grins. “You’re not the only one with claws, remember?”

Harry grins too. He takes a step backwards, and then he hisses, curling his fingers like a cat scratching something. Zayn laughs and rolls his eyes, waving at him. “Have a good night, kitty,” he says.

Harry gasps, affronted, and Zayn gives out another laugh before vanishing where he came from.

He drops the act as soon as he’s sure Harry can’t see him anymore, and it takes all his willpower not to run like Harry’s chasing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	3. My pretty lil' thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You wanna be here as just Zayn. You wanna see him again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

Liam and Zayn agree that it’s too soon to tell the Styles’ about their recent discovery, not if they don’t know what Harry’s doing and why he’s hiding like that. They can’t risk his parents and sister going to confront him at the club, just for Harry to bail out of there and vanish again, this time for good.

Zayn doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing himself, when Liam goes home and he realizes he hasn’t told his best friend and co-worker about the fact that Harry Styles let him keep his ring with the promise of more to come.

And, most certainly, Zayn doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing the next night, when he goes back to _The Creek_ , alone, without Liam even knowing.

He raps his knuckles on the door in the sequence he learned from Adam the day before, and the door opens onto the dark entrance again. Again, Zayn can’t see the person who opens it. He sighs to himself, brushing his face with his hands as he goes down the metal stairs. He winces at the soreness he feels in his cheeks and jaws, and he kinda blesses his laziness to shave, because the beard conceals the flower-shaped bruises he got from Harry’s last fight. Zayn had to actively search through the coarse hair on his face to be able to spot the flowers, so he knows Harry won’t see them.

Zayn shakes his head. It’s not the time to think about Harry being his soulmate. He didn’t even tell Liam that, he sighs guiltily to himself before shaking his head again. _Later, Zayn_ , he tells himself.

Zayn takes a breath and gets inside the main room. He has more important things to do. He has to tell Harry Styles that his family is worried for him, that whatever it is he’s going through, he can go back home and he’ll get the help he needs. There’s no time for _Zayn_ tonight. He’ll deal with himself later, if Harry Styles doesn’t fucking beat the shit out of him and gauge his eyes out with his not-so-metaphorical claws.

The atmosphere in the club is completely different, compared to the night before. There’s no music and more people, and the strobe lights are turned off on the ceiling. Everything is kinda dark, only illuminated by some yellow neon lights on the walls, and only one of the bars seems to be working, with Sophia manning it again. People are chatting all around, quite loudly, and Zayn catches the words “Cat” and “The Shadow” in the conversations more than once as he goes for the same spot he occupied with Liam twenty-four hours earlier.

The ring is empty and almost in total darkness, but there’s a huge crowd around it already. “Come back for the real deal?” Sophia asks him with a smirk when she sees Zayn.

Zayn nods, thinking that it’s easier to tell the truth when he can, to avoid looking too suspicious. Besides, he doesn’t honestly feel like he’s there as a private investigator that night. The weight of Harry’s ring on his finger seems to be reminding him of that, constantly. _You wanna be here as just Zayn. You wanna see him again._ “Cat told me tonight was gonna be something,” he tells Sophia, together with his order of a Jack and Coke.

Sophia nods and gets to work on his drink. There’s not many people at the bar, and Zayn kinda wants to crawl through the crowd until he can stand right under the ring and look up at Harry when he’ll show up, but he doesn’t move. “Yeah,” Sophia replies, and she looks oddly less cheerful than a minute earlier. “Scares the shit out of me sometimes.”

“Who?”

Sophia shrugs. “Har… The Cat,” she says, correcting herself at the last moment. “He’s fighting a lot these days. I know they pay him well, like, _very_ well. But I think it’s too much even for him, sometimes.”

Zayn doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to say, honestly, and whatever he could say, he _can’t_.

Sophia must realize she’s been a bit too honest, because she laughs nervously and lowers her eyes on Zayn’s drink, waving a careless hand in the air. “Oh, don’t mind me. Sometimes I’m in a bad mood, is all.”

Zayn gives her the best reassuring smile he can. “I’m sure the Cat knows what he’s doing.”

Sophia snorts a laugh. “That one can recite all the fucking monologues in _Hamlet_ for ya, but then he can’t tell cough syrup from mouthwash,” she tells Zayn with what looks like a fond eyeroll. “So saying that ‘he knows what he’s doing’ might be debatable.”

Zayn laughs. He remembers Harry talking about cough syrup on the phone with Louis Tomlinson, and he wonders if Sophia is telling him _more_ than a simple good-natured joke about Harry. She hands Zayn his drink, for which he pays. “Cheers, love,” he tells her. He partly does it to sugar-coat her a little, because she seems chatty, and Zayn could always use more info. Partly, though, he does it genuinely, because Sophia seems a good bird, all in all.

“So,” she grins after a moment, resting her elbows on the counter and batting her long eyelashes at Zayn. “He do that thing he does with his fingers, last night?” she asks with a dreamy sigh.

Zayn splutters a little in the drink he barely sipped from, and Sophia laughs heartily at his expenses. “Pardon?” Zayn asks when he recovers.

Sophia sighs, rolling her eyes. “I get why he’s so smitten with you,” she comments. “You look… innocent. _My pretty lil’ thing, all blushing and bashful but still sporting pretty lil’ claws_ , he kept saying,” she adds in a spot-on impression of Harry’s accent.

Zayn feels his insides freeze. “He did?” he inquires, trying to sound casual. _Smitten with me?_

Sophia laughs. “Yep,” she assures. “You must have done wonders, lemme tell ya. He never sees anyone more than once, but he’s been waiting for you to show up all night. I shouldn’t tell you but I’m a bit of a matchmaker, so.”

Zayn gulps down some air, trying to fight the warmth he feels in his cheeks. “’M not _seeing_ him now, though, am I?” he replies, going for a grin.

Sophia arches an eyebrow. “Not yet. But that’s why you’re here, innit? I mean, I’m glad. If it can’t be me, then at least it’s someone else with good cheekbones and long eyelashes,” she winks at Zayn.

Zayn arches his eyebrow right back at her. “Why don’t _you_ go get him, if you think he’s such a catch?” he asks, although it’s clear Sophia’s only joking, about wanting Harry.

Sophia laughs and shrugs. “Nah. One time was enough. Besides, I think the Cat would be too high maintenance for me.”

“How so?”

“Too many problems,” she replies shrugging again and busying herself with drying some glasses.

Zayn narrows his eyes. “Meaning?”

Sophia tuts. “Don’t glare at me, I might talk a lot, but I don’t talk about just _anything_ ,” she assures, raising her eyes and looking behind Zayn for a split second with another grin. “Besides, maybe you can ask him yourself, love.”

Zayn doesn’t have time to do anything before there are warm, big hands on his hips, almost engulfing his waist completely. He suppresses a shiver and a sigh when he feels a hot mouth breathe against his ear. “Treating my favourite lady properly?” Harry asks, the slow drawl of his voice going right down Zayn’s spine and to his dick.

Zayn hums, not turning to look at him. “We’re swapping sex tales,” he declares, winking at Sophia.

Sophia rolls her eyes. “Except we didn’t start yet. Your pretty lil’ thing is keeping secrets, Cat.”

_I can tell you literally nothing about him in bed, darling, and yet I’m keeping more secrets than any of you can imagine_ , Zayn thinks grimly.

Harry hums, still plastered against Zayn’s back. “Maybe next time you can join us, doll,” he tells Sophia with a grin clearly audible in his tone.

Sophia fans a hand in front of her face, sighing loudly. “Don’t tempt me like that. I’m ovulating. I’m horny enough without you two being all fit at me,” she declares.

Harry barks a laugh, and Zayn decides to finally turn and look at him.

He’s grinning, thankfully more clothed than the night before. Zayn sees that he’s wearing skinny jeans and a black t-shirt stretching on his absurdly nice shoulders, his hair all loose and silky, and his eyes still have dark circles around them, but they don’t look particularly tired. Harry must have just arrived, or he doesn’t have to get ready to go on the ring yet, Zayn reckons.

“Hey,” Zayn just says, cursing his voice for having dropped of a full octave.

Harry grins again. One dimple shows up, making him look a bit younger on the spot. “Hey, pretty lil’ thing.”

“I’m not a thing,” Zayn retorts, as usual. _How do we already have_ usual _phrases?_

Harry snickers. “Feisty,” he comments, wiggling his eyebrows. There’s a bruise on his jaw, right where Zayn feels his own soreness and where the flower is thankfully concealed by his beard. Another confirmation that yeah, they’re soulmates.

Zayn just makes a show of rolling his eyes, and doesn’t reply. Harry chuckles, his hands only tightening on Zayn’s waist as he keeps standing in his personal space and looks around a little, his green eyes darting over the almost empty bar. “You alone tonight?” he asks Zayn. “What about your… _friend_ , from yesterday?”

“Why do I feel like you’re italicizing the word?”

Harry chuckles. “Can’t italicize words when you speak, babe. You can emphasize on them, stress them, but you can’t _italicize_ them.”

_You would know, wouldn’t you. You were an editor. Why are you here?_ , Zayn bites his own tongue not to say. “Anyway. No, he’s not here tonight. And he’s my best friend.”

Harry hums, the ghost of a smirk on his pink lips. They’re so fucking close Zayn could taste them without even moving too much. He briefly wonders if people are watching. He’s sure Sophia is, although she’s doing something on the other side of the bar. Zayn wonders if people are looking at them and smirking at the latest pull of the Cat. He doesn’t want to be _that_. “Bummer,” Harry murmurs. “Thought he was your boyfriend and you were up for a three-way.”

Zayn snorts. Just _imagining_ dating Liam and being in threesomes with him is fucking hilarious. “He’s straight, too.”

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Sophia offers from afar, and then shrugs when they both look at her. “What? He was fucking fit. And straight too! A fucking white fly, these days, lemme tell ya.”

Zayn snorts, and Harry hums again, his fingers roaming a bit on Zayn’s sides. “I can’t even fathom how a man could ever stay straight if he’s around you all the time.”

“You done making me compliments?” Zayn grins too. “People already think I put out last night, so no need for that. I’m afraid I’ve become the latest warm body in your bed even though I didn’t see any bed, or any body, or any fucking for that matter.”

Harry’s gaze closes off when Zayn says that, so much that Zayn wishes he could grab the words and shove them back down his own throat. “Anyone tell you something offensive?” Harry asks, coldly. “I don’t take kindly to people being disrespectful of my guests. So if anyone told you anything, you tell me, and I…”

Zayn laughs. “Slow down, my knight,” he says. “Nobody told me shit. It was just a joke.”

“Wasn’t funny,” Harry mutters.

“I didn’t think you would care so much about a hook-up. Future hook-up. _Maybe_ hook-up,” Zayn grins.

Harry sighs. “The fact that I wanna hook up with you and _maybe_ you want that too doesn’t mean you’re gonna be objectified on my watch.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You literally call me a _thing_ every three minutes, Ha… kitty,” he corrects at the last minute.

Harry’s eyes glint, like he noticed Zayn tried to preserve the secrecy of his name because he doesn’t know if the people around know it or are supposed to. “But I call you my _pretty lil’ thing_ ,” he specifies. “’S a compliment. You got that, right?”

Zayn rolls his eyes again. “Yes, I figured that out,” he tells Harry.

Harry chuckles. “Good. And, you can say my name. I’m not fucking Voldemort. Most people in this club know it anyway, it just feeds the aura of mystery around me when they use my nickname.”

Zayn nods. He’s pretty sure Adam yesterday didn’t know Harry personally, and yet he’d known his real name, too. “Okay. I think I’ll call you _kitty_ anyway, though.”

Harry smirks. “Maybe later we can show each other our claws.”

“Yeah. Take out your scratching post. Kitty.”

Harry’s eyes flash with something that makes heat in the pit of Zayn’s stomach boil. “Maybe I will. I gotta go now. Come by the ring?” he asks, pulling a little at Zayn’s hips like he wants him to jump off the stool, like he doesn’t want to get his hands off Zayn yet.

Zayn nods before even actually deciding to follow Harry. He hops off the tall stool by the counter, downing the rest of his drink in three quick, a little unwise gulps, and then follows Harry, who laughs. “You’re gonna get drunk now that you drank it so fast,” Harry mutters, pushing Zayn through the crowd in the dark. Zayn’s kinda glad the lights are off around the ring, because not many people seem to recognize Harry, and he’s sure Harry can’t see how Zayn’s probably blushing while he keeps pushing at him with his broad chest pressed to Zayn’s back and his hips nestled against the small of Zayn’s spine. “’M not _that_ much of a lightweight,” he tells Harry.

Harry chuckles in his ear. “Ain’t you? You look so light. Like I could hold you up against a wall with no effort whatsoever,” he whispers.

Zayn shivers while his brain produces a filthy image of both of them, naked and fucking, with Zayn’s legs hooked on the crook of Harry’s elbows as Harry holds him against a wall. “I’m heavier than I look,” Zayn only says.

Harry hums. “I’ll have to see for myself, I guess.”

They finally get right under the ring, by the corner where Harry stood the night before when he fought the Fox. There’s cords delimitating a small space around the ring itself, probably to avoid people sticking their arms inside the ring or something, but Harry swiftly jumps over it, gesturing for Zayn to do the same. Zayn feels like an idiot, but it’s not like he can just jump like _that_ , so he rolls his eyes and ducks, trespassing under the rope instead of over it.

Harry chuckles, but doesn’t comment on that. “Stay here and cheer for me?” he asks Zayn, grabbing for his hips again by wrapping a solid arm around him, and ghosting the fingers of his other hand over Zayn’s cheekbone.

Zayn scoffs. “’M not a fucking cheerleader. You just said that you wouldn’t objectify me. I feel objectified.”

Harry chuckles. “Does it mean I don’t even get a good-luck kiss?” he pouts.

Zayn rolls his eyes, and before he can second-guess himself, he grabs the collar of Harry’s t-shirt and brings their lips together, hard, their teeth clacking and their noses bumping. Harry laughs in the kiss, but darts his tongue out to shove it into Zayn’s mouth nonetheless. Nobody’s paying them any mind, because Zayn’s sure this is the kind of place where someone like _the Cat_ snogging in public would be cheered upon and whistled at, he thinks suppressing another eyeroll.

“Thanks, pretty lil’ thing,” Harry rasps when they come up for air.

Zayn hums. “I’m not a thing,” he retorts. “Please try not to get the shit beaten out of you, yeah?” _So I don’t get all the fucking bruises afterwards. My stomach’s still so fucking sore. My face too._

Harry grins. “Will you tend to my wounds if I do?”

“Not a fucking chance,” Zayn declares.

Harry laughs again, quickly removing all his rings from his fingers. He kisses Zayn one more time, dropping the rings into Zayn’s palm, which he pries open for the purpose. “Take care of these as well for me, yeah?” he says, and then leaves Zayn there without waiting for a reply, disappearing through a back door while Zayn stares at the empty, dark fighting stage and wonders what the fuck exactly he’s doing with this bloke. Nonetheless, he secures Harry’s rings in his pocket, and keeps the rose one on his finger, where it’s been the whole day, and from where Harry hasn’t demanded that he take it off yet.

The lights go on a little bit shortly after, not much, but enough that Zayn catches sight of the people with the money and the receipts starting to go about in the crowd while everybody places their bets. Zayn frowns, because the night before basically everyone was betting on Harry, while now there seem to be just as many bets on his opponent, someone called The Shadow.

Zayn’s dying to just ask around about the lad Harry’s gonna fight, to make sure he’s gonna be okay, but of course he doesn’t. The last thing he needs is to draw more attention to himself, and he’s already gone and done that by snogging Harry next to the ring, because he can see people sneaking glances at him. Having been allowed to stand beyond the barrier for the audience isn’t helping, he reckons. Just like the night before, there’s no one waiting for Harry in his corner, no coach, no assistant or whatever the role of the person helping the fighter in this kind of matches is. He can see a man standing at the other corner for the fighter called The Shadow, though.

The bell rings exactly when the lights come brightly to life on top of the ring, and the host of the match—a different man from the one of the night before—hops on it. Zayn realizes in an instant that the atmosphere is different as well, and it’s not because of the absence of music and strobe lights. The crowd is almost completely silent, thrums of excitement running through it and so palpable Zayn feels like he could cut the air with a knife. His stomach lurches a little, and he brings a hand to it, wincing when he remembers the bruise he has on his stomach. It's a sunflower.

“Welcome!” the host shouts, without a mic. “Without further ado, let me introduce you to an old acquaintance of ours. Please welcome The Shadow, tonight’s opponent, and former champion of _The Creek_!”

The crowd cheers, and Zayn has to do his best not to gape when a man steps into the light. The bloke is _huge_ , almost double Harry’s size, with muscles bulging on his chest and arms. He’s wearing tight jogging shorts and an even tighter tank top, with lines and lines of tattoos running on his biceps and pecs in drawings of monsters, dragons, birds. His head is completely shaved, and so is his face.

“Fuck,” Zayn mutters. “Harry, be fucking careful.”

“Don’t you worry, pretty lil’ thing,” he hears coming from his right, and he gasps, turning.

Harry’s there, not looking at him but close enough that Zayn can feel warmth radiating from his naked torso. He’s staring up at the Shadow, just wearing sweatpants and with his hair in a bun as he straps and ties bandages around his knuckles. Zayn notices his hands are shaking a little, but he doesn’t think it’s fear. It’s more… _anticipation_ , from what he can see in Harry’s clear gaze.

Harry fails to tie the knot on his right hand’s bandages, and Zayn scoffs, cursing himself as he immediately reaches for Harry’s hands. “Come here,” he just mutters, taking care of tying the knot for him.

Harry chuckles. “Cheers,” he just says.

“Be careful, that guy’s fucking _huge_ ,” Zayn can’t do but plead, his voice shaking.

Harry chuckles again. “Don’t worry, pretty lil’ thing. Here, hold this for me,” he just says, handing Zayn his towel and jumping on the ring with a fluid movement when the host calls out for the Cheshire Cat.

“You know the drill,” the host says then. “No rules except no weapons other than your own body. One single match until one of you can’t fight anymore.”

The crowd cheers, and Zayn almost has a heart attack. _Until they_ can’t _fight anymore?_

Harry and the Shadow nod. The bell rings again, and the host abandons the ring.

Zayn stares at Harry as he and the Shadow circle each other for a moment. He can see Harry’s back quite clearly, the lilies almost completely faded already, same as the scratches Zayn got the night before. The sweats rest low on Harry’s hips, and when he keeps circling the Shadow until they’ve exchanged places, Zayn is greeted with the sight of all of Harry’s tattoos, and the bruise on his stomach, right below the moth inked there.

Harry grins. “Gonna fight me or keep staring at me? I know I’m fit, you don’t have to be so fucking obvious though.”

The Shadow hums. “I got a little distracted by all the ways I can beat you to a pulp.”

“Just do it then, don’t think too much about it,” Harry says, lounging forward. His blow lands correctly under the Shadow’s chin, but the man doesn’t even budge, doesn’t even try to block it. He just takes it.

Zayn knows Harry’s strong, but the more the blows keep coming from both of them, the more he understands he’s not _stronger_ than the Shadow, so he can’t rely on that alone. Zayn’s heart hammers in his chest, louder every time Harry doesn’t manage to parry a hit and gasps in pain. And it’s not even because he’s already dreading all the bruises he himself will get from that. He’s just scared fucking senseless for Harry.

The match keeps going. Harry falls twice and stands rapidly back up before the Shadow can even think of taking advantage of him being on the ground. The Shadow also falls twice, taking more time to stand back up because of his whole weight and mass, but managing before Harry can do anything about it either.

They tire each other, taunt each other, hit each other. Zayn feels like he can’t breathe properly.

Harry’s eyes are set on his opponent, like he’s got tunnel vision, like he won’t ever dare look away. _Good. Don’t look away. Don’t get distracted or this guy will fucking end you_.

Zayn is sure the Shadow isn’t Harry’s friend like the Fox is. When Harry was fighting the Fox, Zayn could see the playfulness in their eyes, in their blows, even. Now, it feels like Harry and the Shadow are proper _enemies_ , like they hate each other, like they want to really, _really hurt_ each other.

Harry’s got bruises already forming on his shoulders, and Zayn winces with his same pain, knowing that new flowers are blooming on his skin, under the shirt. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

“Are you done playing, Cat?” the Shadow asks then, quite loudly. “You don’t deem me worthy of _all_ your skills? Or are you just afraid I’ll smash your tiny little head on this ring if you get too close?”

Harry chuckles. “Nah. ‘S just, you stink something awful, mate. Don’t wanna get too close to _that_ ,” he says scrunching his nose, and some people in the audience laugh, because they can’t see just how tired Harry looks. They’ve been at it for almost half an hour, Zayn realizes.

The Shadow grins. “Then maybe I’ll go to your pretty boy down there, see if _he_ thinks I stink after I bend him over the ring.”

Harry’s eyes flash in anger. Zayn isn’t even worried about the Shadow talking about _him_ , because he just knows it’s only something he’s saying to taunt Harry and make him lose focus, it’s blatant and quite ridiculous if he’s honest.

The thing is that it’s not blatant and ridiculous for Harry, because he looks properly angry right now, _too angry_ , and his gaze could probably carve holes into someone’s head. “Leave him alone,” he replies, and it’s the wrong thing to say, because it gives the Shadow confirmation that he struck a nerve.

“Why?” the Shadow laughs. “Reckon I can fuck him better than you do anyway.”

“I said stop talking about him,” Harry growls.

His eyes leave the Shadow and focus on Zayn. It’s just a split second, but Zayn frantically shakes his head at him, because he _knows_ it’s the wrong call.

He’s right. The Shadow grunts triumphantly, and lurches forward, tackling Harry by wrapping one of his huge arms around his waist, and slamming him into the ground. Zayn screams, and he’s only partially glad that many people scream with him, covering his own yelp. Harry’s back slaps against the hard floor of the ring, with the Shadow pinning him there and looming over him, casting an actual huge shadow on Harry’s whole body, he’s so big compared to him.

Harry tries to break free, thrashing his legs to no avail, and Zayn sees the Shadow grin down at him. “You lost, Harry Styles,” he whispers, barely audible. Harry’s name sounds so wrong on his lips, Zayn doesn’t even wanna hear it like that again.

Harry’s eyes flash again. “Have I? It’s until I can’t fight, Dermot. And I _can always_ fight,” he replies.

The moment later, Harry arches his back under Dermot’s crushing hand, and then keeps pushing. He flips his head, smashing his forehead against Dermot’s face, and Zayn almost gags when he hears the disgusting sound of cartilage breaking. Blood flows from Dermot’s nose, and he yells in pain, letting Harry go.

Harry’s forehead is smudged with blood as well, but Zayn’s sure he’s not hurt. He stands back up with a grin. “Don’t loom if you don’t know how to do it, Shadow,” Harry says, and then doesn’t give Dermot any time to actually recover from the blow before connecting his fist with his face again. And again. And again.

Zayn is about to cry, in relief or fear, he’s not actually sure. Harrys’ once white knuckle bandages are now soaked with Dermot’s blood, and Dermot is slowly losing his footing, backing up against the border of the ring, his back sagging into the cords just as Harry laughs and gives him one last punch, to the gut.

Dermot falls to the ground, completely fucked up and breathing in wheezes, and Zayn feels like throwing up at all the blood on his face and Harry’s hands, at the fear that Harry could have been the one bleeding on the floor, and at that show of violence for money. _Why do you need to do this? How can you_ want _this?_ , he thinks, almost cries in his head, wishing he could ask Harry.

Harry’s so close to Zayn in that moment. They’re right on the side of the ring where Zayn is waiting, but Harry doesn’t take his eyes off of Dermot, even though it’s clear Dermot can’t take it anymore.

Harry is the one looming over him, with a grin. “Can you still fight, Dermot?” he asks, so low Zayn’s sure not many people hear that.

Dermot coughs, spits, and shakes his head.

Harry chuckles. He keeps Dermot down with his foot on his sternum, his back still bent over so that he can tower over him. “ _This_ is when you should loom, Shadow,” Harry whispers, and then places his nails on Dermot’s throat, scratching down the column of it.

It’s like he did with the Fox, but this time, Zayn can see the scratches are more painful, deeper. Harry hisses like a cat, and the crowd, which had been completely silent, roars so loud it deafens Zayn’s ears.

“The Cheshire Cat is the winner!” the host announces, grabbing Harry’s bloody hand and lifting it up. Harry nods, but he’s pale and beaten up, and Zayn thinks he’s about to go straight to the ground.

Harry doesn’t, he keeps himself upright and even smiles, without dimples, and Zayn can’t help but think that he’s _alone_ in there, no coach, no anyone. Dermot is immediately joined by his own coach or assistant or whatever, and two more people, who help him up and tend to his wounds, scurrying him away from the ring and the room.

The people all around start to move, handing each other money, going to collect the results of their bets from the people in charge of that. Zayn honestly doesn’t care. His body feels sore _everywhere_ , but he can’t think about that either, because the only thing he wants to do is help Harry off that fucking ring and make sure he’s okay.

Harry hops off, and Zayn sees that he has a split lip. Zayn instantly gnaws at his own bottom lip, harshly and painfully, to make sure it’ll be red, red enough that maybe Harry won’t notice the little flower surely blooming on it.

When Harry finally reaches him on unstable feet, Zayn thinks that Harry won’t probably notice shit anyway, because he’s barely standing. “Harry?” Zayn asks, carefully.

Harry smiles, sighs, and grabs the towel from Zayn’s hands, burying his face in it and dabbing at the blood all over it. People pass them by, congratulating him, patting him on the shoulders. _Don’t fucking touch him_ , Zayn wants to snarl, but doesn’t.

“Zayn?” Harry asks. “I… I don’t feel particularly great.”

Zayn laughs. It’s kinda hysterical if he’s honest, and Harry probably doesn’t even know why nervous laughter is erupting from Zayn’s lips, but his own lips quirk upwards anyway. “Of course you fucking don’t, you just got the _shit_ beaten out of you!” Zayn almost squeals.

Harry grins, his whole body swaying a little. Zayn is quick to act as a crutch and hold him to his side. “But I won,” Harry clarifies, even raising a thumbs-up. A really bloody one.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, congrats. Let’s go to the back, I’ll help you,” he decides before he can think too much about it.

Harry hums and doesn’t reply, but he puts one foot in front of the other, collaborating as much as he can, for which Zayn is grateful, because he isn’t sure he’s got the strength to hold all of Harry’s weight by himself.

They struggle to get past the crowd and to the door guarded by the same two bodyguards of the night before, and Zayn stops, sighing. “He gave me _all_ his fucking rings, they’re in my pocket,” he announces. “Check for yourselves if you need to, I think he’ll fucking go to the ground if I stop holding him up.”

The bouncers chuckle, and Harry stifles a fucking giggle with his face buried in Zayn’s neck. “I am literally with you,” he tells Zayn, “and you think you need my rings to pass? That doesn’t make any sense,” he adds with a laugh.

Well, he might be right. Zayn chuckles a little himself, because if Harry’s being a shit, maybe he’s not _that_ bad. The bouncers laugh as well, moving to let them both pass, and Zayn half pushes, half drags Harry to the locker room, hoping they’ll have an emergency kit in there, or something.

There’s no one there, but Zayn only has time to sit Harry on a bench before the Fox—Greg—barrels in, shouting. “Oh, what the _fuck_ , what the fuck, that was _bloody brilliant_!”

Zayn turns his attention from Harry for a moment, arching an eyebrow at the tall man with red hair who just entered the room. “Yeah? Tell it to his face. And the rest of his body in half an hour or so,” he retorts. _And mine_ , he adds mentally.

Greg blinks. “Um, sorry? What are you doing here? Who are you?”

“His hook-up from yesterday. I’d say I’m hurt you don’t remember me, but I don’t really care,” Zayn replies with an eyeroll, because he can’t be arsed to explain that they didn’t _really_ hook-up but Harry is apparently _smitten with him_ or so Sophia maintains.

Harry, who is still sitting on the bench, with his back against the row of metal lockers, grins dumbly. “My poor soulmate’s gonna be _so_ pissed at me tomorrow,” he comments.

“Yeah, he fucking will be,” Zayn retorts before he can properly think about it.

Harry blinks, and then grins again. His eyes are half-lidded, but they don’t look damaged. Just tired. “Maybe it’s a she,” Harry replies.

Zayn sighs. “Maybe it’s a fucking camel, I don’t care,” he answers. “Do you have a first aid kit?” he then asks Greg. “Gotta disinfect this cut on his lip and the one on his shoulder. Although that guy was so fucking _gross_ that you might only be safe with a tetanus shot, to be honest.”

Harry laughs hard, and regrets it the second later, when he grimaces and holds his hands on his stomach. Zayn feels panic curse through his veins. _What if he broke a rib? Or two? Or all of them? That Dermot slammed him into the floor so hard I felt my own bones rattle_.

Greg is rummaging through a cabinet, so Zayn takes his time to start feeling Harry’s ribs up like Doniya taught him. She’s a doctor, and she had insisted that all her siblings learn how to feel if bones were broken or cracked. In hindsight, Zayn has to thank her.

“I don’t think you’ve cracked any ribs,” Zayn murmurs at last. “Although you might wanna go to the hospital and have a doctor check you up.”

Harry chuckles. “Zayn? Did _you_ hit your head?”

“Why?”

“No hospitals,” Greg replies, too cheerfully for Zayn’s liking. “What do you think we would tell ‘em? Sorry, we were illegally fighting and got hurt? Nah,” he hands Zayn a medical red box. “He got worse beatings. He’s fine, don’t you fret, pretty lil’ thing.”

Zayn glares at him, and a moment later he realizes Harry’s also glaring. “Say that again and next time I’ll rip your fucking face off on the ring, Greg,” he tells his friend, coldly.

Greg rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I don’t know _his name_ though,” he says, stage-whispering.

Zayn opens the first aid kit. “’S Zayn.”

“Oh, okay. Um, Zayn?”

“Yes?” Zayn growls as he rummages in the kit for a cotton ball and disinfectant.

“Your lip’s bleeding.”

Zayn barely manages to hold back a curse, and he touches his own lip, his fingers coming off stained with blood. Harry frowns, even though he looks almost asleep. “Fuck, yeah,” Zayn clears his throat. “I, um, I bit down on it when fucking Dermot slammed Harry on the ground. Got, um, scared a little.”

Harry’s eyes look more vigilant now, and his expression is sad, Zayn thinks. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he murmurs.

Zayn shakes his head, sucking on his own bottom lip and dabbing at the cut on Harry’s with a cotton ball drenched in disinfectant. Harry hisses in pain. “’S okay. Don’t hiss at me, kitty,” he replies, going for a smirk he doesn’t particularly feel.

Harry chuckles. None of them speaks for a while, as Zayn tends to Harry’s cuts on his lip and his shoulder. Harry seems to be feeling better after a moment, and he arches his eyebrows at Greg. “Why are you wearing fancy clothes and have the clear shape of a hand on your cheek?”

Zayn darts a glance to Greg. It’s true. He’s wearing jeans and a nice-looking black button-up, and he’s blushing, which only makes the print of a palm against his cheek go even redder on his pale skin. “I, um, I had a date,” he tells Harry. “And it, eh, it turns out the girl is my soulmate. When she realized she slapped me, screaming that she’s been fucking sore every other day for years and it’s my fault.”

Harry snickers. Zayn thinks he’d laugh hard if he wasn’t so sore himself, and he has to fight his own laughter while Greg blushes even more.

“Well, fuck,” Harry comments, slurs under Zayn’s ministrations.

Greg grins. “But then she snogged me!” he adds cheerfully. “And now she has a nice little orchid blooming on her cheek ‘cause of the hit she herself delivered. Got quite a mean left blow, the bird. Her name’s Marion and she’s hot and she gave me her number.”

Harry chuckles, and then nods. “Then I think it’s time for you to stop coming here. Got yourself a nice bird. Now get yourself a real job, and set your life straight, mate,” he says, more seriously.

Greg sighs. “Yeah. I was thinking about quitting for a while now. Harry?”

Harry hums. Zayn tries to look at him in the eyes while he keeps dabbing at the wounds even if there’s no need to. It’s just… how can Harry give someone _that_ advice, when he doesn’t take it for himself?

“When are _you_ gonna quit? It’s been two years,” Greg asks, almost reluctantly.

Harry sighs. “I’ll quit when I start losing. The money’s too good. And you know I _can’t_ , right now,” he replies, staring at Greg right in the eyes.

There’s something neither of them is saying, something that is not meant for Zayn’s ears, clearly, and Zayn feels more bummed about the secret than he should just as an investigator doing his job.

Yeah, because he’s still working, although he seems to have forgotten it.

Greg sighs. “Yeah. Listen, I, um, I brought you the paper. I finished it. I’ll leave it in your locker, yeah? You need to get some rest, if you go over it now you’re gonna ruin it and I’ll fail the exam.”

Harry laughs and winces. “I can go over papers fucking blindfolded, mate,” he declares.

Zayn stares at him, and Harry shrugs. “What? Throwing punches is not all we can do, here. We are cultured swine,” he says.

“Swines,” Greg corrects, stuffing a small stack of printed sheets in a locker that must be Harry’s.

Harry gasps indignantly and Zayn rolls his eyes. They both look at Greg. “There’s no plural for ‘swine’. Collective noun,” Zayn tells him.

Greg blushes. “I’m gonna fucking fail the exam for sure.”

Harry snickers. “You ain’t. Now go back to your bird. We should do something tomorrow. Say a proper goodbye. Lou and Dilly too.”

Greg smiles. “Yeah, sure. I don’t even _dream_ of going without saying bye to my Delilah, that’s for sure. Goodnight. Be careful. Don’t crack what’s left of his ribs when you fuck,” he says the last part looking at Zayn, and then he’s out of the room.

Harry chuckles. “Sorry. Doesn’t have a brain-mouth filter most of the time. He’s a good lad though.”

“Why are you saying sorry? I thought we would fuck, that's why I'm here,” Zayn says seriously. He feels a bit dizzy for how much he’s testing his luck tonight, for how much he’s _forgetting_ that he’s working, but he does it anyway, hoping it won’t blow up in his face just yet.

Harry’s face falls a little. “Oh, um, like, if you want, eh, sure, I mean, I…”

Zayn laughs. “I’m joking, Harry. I believe you promised me a mind-blowing, hold-me-up-against-the-wall fuck. I somehow doubt even the Cheshire Cat could pull that off after having been almost beaten to a pulp.”

Harry grins. “But next time I will deliver, I promise.”

“Why are you so hell-bent on _me_ specifically?” Zayn asks. The question feels like it gets ripped out of his throat, like he doesn’t intend to say it, but he _has to_.

Harry stops grinning, and just stares up at Zayn from where he’s still sitting on the bench and Zayn’s still towering over him like he never could if they were both standing. “Because you’re fit. Because you look innocent and bashful but you have claws of your own and I could spot them even in a crowd. And because, pretty lil’ thing, my fucking rose ring looks gorgeous on you,” he replies, slowly but firmly, never taking his eyes off of Zayn’s.

Zayn lowers his gaze to his own hand, where Harry’s ring is still adorning his index finger.

He decides to let it be enough for now. “I’m not a thing,” he only says.

Harry sighs. “I know,” he states, slowly standing up.

He’s not that much taller than Zayn, if Zayn’s honest, but he’s more built, his shoulders so much broader than Zayn’s, and that alone makes Zayn feel scrawny and small. Not in a bad way, though, Zayn realizes. More in like a… sexy way. _Fuck, Zayn, stop that thought right there._

Harry groans in pain when he tries to stretch, and then slouches. He always slouches a little, Zayn has noticed. Even when he fights. Maybe it’s a defensive position. Nonetheless, Harry’s all beaten up right now, so Zayn doesn’t hesitate to lean into him and try to keep him upright once more. Harry goes willingly, sighing and sagging against Zayn. “Where do you live?” Zayn asks, even if he already knows. “I’m gonna help you get home.”

Harry doesn’t reply for a long moment. He just hums, clears his throat, opens his mouth then closes it again, and then finally, finally speaks. “I live upstairs on the third floor. You can come. But we gotta be quiet. My roommates are almost as feisty as you are when I wake ‘em.”

+

It’s quite a feat to push Harry’s lanky body up the two flights of stairs at the entrance of _The Creek_. The metal stairs in the darkness, the ones you climb down to get to the ring, aren’t actually in the middle of nowhere. Zayn sees the entrance room now lighted by a couple bare lightbulbs as they go back there and then up more stairs a bit on the side. It’s just a room, with nothing but broken armchairs and couches piled against one of the walls. All the walls are covered in graffiti, with scenes from boxing matches, unreadable words, random pieces of art scattered along the concrete.

The two sets of stairs up which Zayn pushes Harry are also metal, although they look and feel more stable, and they also have a railing. Zayn holds himself on that to make sure he won’t tumble down all the steps if Harry’s legs suddenly give up and he slumps too much on Zayn.

They get to a small wooden door, and that’s when Harry stops leaning on Zayn, taking a deep breath, like he needs to sober up for some reason. He then knocks on the door, three times, in a sequence. Zayn rolls his eyes a little. _Why are they always so fucking secretive here?_

The door is opened by Louis Tomlinson. He looks quite good, if only a bit sleep deprived like Harry, but Zayn doesn’t think he’s doing too shabby. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the Black Sabbath logo, and grey sweats. “You look like shit,” he tells Harry with a sigh, and then arches his eyebrow at Zayn, in a mute question.

Zayn clears his throat. “I, um, I’m a friend of Harry’s. I helped him up the stairs.”

Harry chuckles and gets past the threshold, gesturing for Zayn to do the same. While they both go past Louis, Zayn clearly sees Louis’s eyes widen as he tries and fails to grab Harry by the shoulder, like he wants to stop him.

That’s when Zayn hears a small, throaty cough. Harry suddenly looks panicked, his eyes darting around the room and landing on Zayn like a deer’s, but Zayn can’t even open his mouth to ask what the fuck is scaring him so much, because a moment later a small, very small little girl, two years old or barely so, laughs and runs towards Harry, stomping her little feet as she makes her wobbly way to him.

Harry takes a ragged breath, but he crouches down for her. She’s got pyjamas with flowers on, and short, curly hair, the colour of chocolate, held up in two pigtails. She’s pretty, and small.

Zayn has barely time to notice how flushed she looks, like she’s kinda sick, and then he sees her eyes.

Green. So green.

The little girl giggles as she collides with Harry, who hugs her to his chest. “Daddy!” she says.

Harry sighs, his face hidden from Zayn as Zayn feels the ground slipping from under his feet. “Hello, Dilly,” Harry murmurs, still holding her. “My pretty lil’ thing, what are you doing still awake?”

“I miss Daddy! No sleepy!” the little girl, Delilah, Dilly, _his little girl_ , exclaims with slurred, unsure consonants.

Harry chuckles, and hugs her tighter. “Daddy’s home now. I missed you too.”

Zayn stays motionless and speechless as his brain fully wraps around the fact that Harry Styles has a daughter, _a fucking daughter, what the fuck what the fuck._

Harry stands up, wincing but hiding his face from his daughter, and picking her up from the ground. He rests her on his cocked hip, surely, like he’s done that for a long time already. _That’s what happened. This is what made him disappear. A child. Fuck._

Dilly coughs. Harry shushes her, worriedly rubbing circles on her back and looking at her, but Zayn doesn’t think there’s anything worse than a normal cold going on with the kid, or at least he hopes so. Dilly frowns, gently placing her small hands on Harry’s cheeks. “Daddy hurt?” she asks.

Harry chuckles and shakes his head. “No, baby, Daddy’s fine. Let’s go to bed now, yeah? It’s late, sleepy time.”

Delilah nods and wraps her arms around Harry’s neck.

Only then does Harry turn to face Zayn. Zayn is conscious of Louis Tomlinson standing right next to him, still as a statue, even though he keeps his eyes on Harry.

Harry’s eyes are a bit cold when he stares at Zayn. “Wait here. I’m gonna put her to bed. I don’t owe anyone any explanation,” he assures. “But I’m gonna give you a couple because you’ve been nice to me. So wait,” he just adds, and then turns to bring Dilly away to some room.

Delilah, whose chin is now rested on Harry’s shoulder, smiles at Zayn and clenches and unclenches her tiny fist at him, like she wants to say bye. Zayn does his best to smile, and waves at her.

As soon as Harry and Delilah are gone, disappeared into a room and with the door closed, Zayn hears Louis Tomlinson sigh.

He looks at Louis. Louis stares back at him and takes a couple steps, crossing the admittedly very small living room/kitchen they’re in, and settling with his arse against the sill of a window. He opens the window, takes out a cigarette from a packet he has in his pocket, and lights it before staring at Zayn again.

“So,” he says quietly. “Does Harry know his brand new _friend_ is the private investigator currently hired by his family to look for him, Zayn Malik?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	4. Delilah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When I got my eyes on you, it was only ‘cause you were fit. But then I saw something else, too.”  
> “What’s that?” Zayn asks.  
> Harry chuckles. “One day I’ll tell you. Think I told you a fair share of things for tonight already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and the original characters.

“So,” Louis Tomlinson says quietly. “Does Harry know his brand new _friend_ is the private investigator currently hired by his family to look for him, Zayn Malik?”

Zayn feels his stomach drop at Louis’s words, and he knows it perfectly shows on his face, because he can also feel all the blood drain from his cheeks. He tries to smooth his features back into neutrality anyway. “I beg your pardon?”

Louis chuckles. “Drop the act. I know who you are. You weren’t exactly subtle with your friend Liam Payne when you went about my workplace asking where I live. I’ve still got friends there. They told me your name. I looked you up through your agency’s website. You should value secrecy more, if you wanna go undercover or whatever it is you’re doing with Harry.”

He speaks quietly, and not particularly angrily, but his words sound very cold and calculated. Zayn looks at him while he smirks and keeps taking drags from his cigarette.

_Fuck._ There’s no point denying it, though, because while Zayn tried to find him and Harry, Louis was doing his own research on the people who were looking for him. “I’m not _going undercover_ with him,” Zayn only points out.

Louis chuckles. “So you’re really just fucking him? Or, well, _not_ fucking him. He’s been whining that I cockblocked him last night, repeatedly, the whole day, so much that even Dilly rolled her eyes at him at some point and told him ‘Daddy stop throwing strop please’. She’s two.”

Zayn would laugh if the situation wasn’t so fucking bad and confusing. “I’m not the enemy here, Louis,” he says carefully. “Harry’s family hired me because they’re worried. Your girlfriend too, Gemma says.”

Zayn strikes a mighty nerve right there, because he clearly sees a flash of hurt in Louis’s eyes, in the way his jaw tightens and his eyes close as he looks at the ground for a moment, like he literally can’t bear it. “Ex,” he just answers. “My ex. I broke up with her.”

“Have you really? Because I know you had even chosen a ring for her. Doesn’t feel like a proper breakup to me.”

Louis Tomlinson tilts his chin up at that, and stares coldly at Zayn. “Watch it, Zayn Malik. I’m not in the mood for this.”

Zayn shuts up. He wants to press more, he knows that speaking about Eleanor might be the only thing that would make Louis crack and talk, but he has to proceed carefully, because Harry’s in the house as well, _with a two-year-old who is his daughter and we didn’t find anything about her anywhere, how’s that even possible?_

Louis clears his throat. “You speak to Eleanor as well?” he asks then, his voice infinitely quieter and sadder. He stubs his cigarette in an ashtray placed on the window sill, and lights another immediately.

“I tried,” Zayn replies honestly, vividly remembering the scary encounter he’s had with Eleanor Calder three weeks prior. “She screamed at me that my job is bullshit and that she didn’t want to deal with any of my shit.”

Louis chuckles, and there’s a fondness there, so clear, so fucking clear it doesn’t take Zayn more than a second to understand. _He_ had to _break up with her, for some reason. He still loves her._ “Yeah, sounds like her,” Louis just comments.

“I need to know what happened, Louis,” Zayn says, taking a step towards him, and deciding that just winging it and being honest is probably the best route to take with this man. “Anne, Robin and Gemma are devastated. The police told them to stop looking, that Harry’s probably dead in a ditch. But they won’t give up. Do you really want Harry’s family and your girlfriend to just think that you’re both dead? If this is just about the child, Harry’s family will help him. I’ve spoken to them. There’s literally _nothing_ they wouldn’t do for Harry. And you.”

Louis blinks. Zayn thinks he sees the hint of tears in his eyes, but his voice is calm and cold when he replies. “We can’t go back. But you should. Go away. Tell Harry’s family and Eleanor that we’re fucking dead, because we might as well be if we go back.”

Zayn opens his mouth to counter that statement. He’s not opposed to begging at this point, because the house is small and old, no place for a toddler, and both Harry and Louis look tired and kinda scared, and there’s just no fucking way he’ll leave them alone with this. That he’ll leave _Harry_ alone with this, whatever _this_ is.

Zayn never speaks. Because he sees Louis’s eyes dart to the side, and panic spreads all over his face, in his clear eyes, his mouth opening but no sounds coming out of it. Zayn turns, and he knows Harry’s standing there and listening even before they actually make eye contact.

Harry’s in the middle of the room, still as a statue, bruises and miles of skin on display now that he got rid of his top. His hands are shaking wildly, and his eyes are wide open, his eyelids trembling.

Zayn flinches when Harry moves, because he knows he’s about to get a punch to his face or something equally painful. He didn’t exactly lie to Harry, but he feels too much like he did, and he’s sorry, so sorry, but Harry has too many problems, like Sophia said, and Zayn just wants to _help_ him. Because Harry stopped being just a job probably the very moment they first spoke and looked at each other in the eyes the day before.

Harry’s hands grab two fistfuls of Zayn’s shirt, and Zayn flinches again. He deserves it. He’ll take it, even. He hears Louis call for Harry, but just in a whisper, like he doesn’t really want to.

And then, Harry looks at Zayn in the eyes just one more second, before bursting into tears and reclining his forehead on Zayn’s collarbone, his shoulders quaking with sobs. “Don’t tell them,” he moans through his tears. “They can’t know about Dilly. If they know, she’s gonna be in danger. He’s gonna take her, he’s gonna hurt her. I can’t lose my kid. Please, please, don’t tell anyone, I beg you, Zayn.”

Zayn’s stomach and heart twist painfully at that display of utter desperation. The sight of Harry crying and begging, looking smaller than Zayn for the way he’s sagging against his chest, feels so fucking _wrong_ it cuts Zayn’s breath off. Harry keeps sobbing, and Zayn doesn’t know what to do, so he just wraps his arms around Harry’s broad shoulders.

Louis sighs behind them.

“Harry, Harry, calm down,” Zayn says as gently as he can, feeling like he’s trying to pet a stray cat. He pushes Harry away, only slightly, only so that he can look at him in the eyes. They’re puffy with tears, and bloodshot. “Nobody’s gonna take your kid away from you or hurt her, okay? I promise.”

Harry shakes his head. “You _can’t_ promise that, Zayn, you don’t understand what’s at stake here, it’s her _life_ , her fucking _life_!” he grunts, almost wails, his hands tightening on Zayn’s shirt so much Zayn hears it rip under Harry’s strong fingers.

Zayn takes a breath. “I’m not an enemy, Harry. I wanna help you. And I _will_ , I can promise you that. But you need to tell me what’s going on, babe, okay? You need to calm down and tell me everything.”

Harry blinks. He’s slowly stopped crying, and now he’s releasing Zayn’s shirt from his grip, straightening his back, as if he realized just how much he broke down in front of basically a stranger, and wants to recover quickly. “I can’t,” he says, and Zayn hates that cold tone of his voice. “Thank you for helping me with my wounds and up the stairs. But I think you should go. I’ll need my ring back.”

For a moment, Zayn feels stupidly close to heartbroken. Because he might not know Harry that well, of course he doesn’t after less than two days, but he’s been working on his case for so long, and looking at him in the eyes through pics and in person _so much_ , that he feels like Harry not trusting him is just wrong. Harry should trust Zayn. _I want you to trust me_.

Zayn gulps down some air, looking down at his own fingers, and staring at the rose ring on his index. He twists it and turns it, and then takes another breath before raising his eyes to Harry’s. “No,” he says.

Harry’s gaze flashes. It’s not proper anger, but it’s surprise and frustration. He’s got a palm opened for Zayn, still waiting for him to give the ring back. “No?” Harry asks sternly.

Zayn chuckles. “Yeah, Harry Styles. I said no. I’m sure you’re not used to this little word, but don’t you worry, I’ll tell you what it means. It means I won’t do as you say. It means you won’t have your way.”

Harry takes a step forward. It takes all of Zayn’s willpower not to flinch, because he knows just how _strong_ Harry is, he knows that he’d have no chance if Harry really decided to beat him up, but for some reason Zayn _knows_ Harry’s not a violent person by nature, which is crazy considering what he does for a living, but Zayn just _knows_ there’s more to him. There’s more to the reason Harry’s fighting, and Zayn knows it has to do with Dilly, but he has to know _more_. “Zayn, I think it’s time for you to get the fuck out of my house,” Harry says coldly, every trace of tears gone.

Zayn feels like he’s never pushed his luck so much, not even the night before when he agreed to have sex with Harry knowing that he _couldn’t._ “But this is not _your house_ , isn’t it, Harry? You’re _hiding_ here and someone’s letting you stay, but you don’t _live_ here,” he declares, walking backwards a little until he hits an armchair with the backs of his knees, and plops down on it, sitting.

It’s true. Zayn has taken a couple looks around, and he can’t see any _homey_ things, no pictures, no toys, not anything indicating that this house is Harry’s new permanent residence.

Harry blinks. “Where the fuck did you even come from,” he mutters, sighing.

Zayn chuckles. “I came from my agency, where your mother stared at me right in the eyes and told me, quite firmly and scarily, that everybody says you’re dead, but she _knows_ you ain’t,” he replies. “I come from a hundred phone calls with your sister, who is so worried about you she can’t sleep, but she’s still considering the option of leaving you alone if that’s really what you want. But that’s not what you want. You miss them. I can see it in your eyes, and I’m quite good at reading people. So no, Harry, I won’t get the fuck out, and I won’t give you your ring back. I’m staying right here, and I’ll help you.”

Harry’s eyes blink frantically. He looks for Louis with his gaze, but Zayn doesn’t turn to look at Harry’s friend, deciding to keep his focus on Harry and Harry alone. Harry can make people crumble with his hands and fists. But Zayn has made people crumble with his eyes and words, more than once.

“I _can’t_ , Zayn,” Harry says, and it’s not cold anymore, it’s sad and frustrated. “I can’t go back. Dilly’s in danger wherever I go that is not here.”

Zayn nods. “I can see that you’re scared, and if you say that telling people about her might put her in danger, then I believe you. So I won’t tell anyone. But I need you to tell me what’s going on, Harry, because _this_?” he gestures around, and then downstairs, where the fucking boxing matches are held, “This is no place for a child. A child shouldn’t stay awake to say hi to her Daddy and see him come home covered in fucking bruises. You said you were sorry you scared me, with that fucking guy Dermot. You shouldn’t say sorry _to me_ , but to _her_ , because I’m sure that one day, if you keep this up, you’ll scare _her_ more than you can ever scare me, and maybe it’s not physical danger, but that day you’ll be the one putting her in danger anyway. Do you understand what I mean, Harry?”

Zayn thinks he’s spoken quite coldly, and that Harry will never know how raw and honest he’s just been, how much he really believes what he said, and how much Zayn really wants to help him just because he _wants to_ , and not because it’s his job.

Harry’s pretty mouth is open in a small, perfect ‘o’, and Zayn hears Louis sigh a chuckle behind them. “Hazza?” Louis calls.

Harry doesn’t take his eyes off of Zayn. There’s something there, something a bit amazed and a bit curious, that Zayn can’t properly decipher. Harry just hums questioningly at Louis.

“We need this lad,” Louis declares. “We’ve been fine on our own until now, but we don’t know how long it’ll last. We need help, and since we can’t go to the police or to anyone else, we might as well go to Zayn fucking Malik here.”

Harry doesn’t speak for a long moment. He keeps staring at Zayn in the eyes, and Zayn keeps staying seated in the armchair, holding his gaze and turning the rose ring on his own index finger. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone,” Harry says. “Should I trust you?”

Zayn nods. “You should trust me. I trusted you when you gave me a fucking ring and left me to face two bouncers who could have squished me like a snail. I trusted you when you snogged me under the boxing ring and told me not to worry.”

Harry chuckles, and then sighs, his shoulders relaxing a little and slouching. “Okay, pretty lil’ thing. Then keep my fucking ring, and stay. I’ll make tea, and I’ll tell you my story.”

Zayn smiles. “I’m not a thing,” he replies easily.

Harry laughs. “Feisty,” he comments, and then opens his mouth to say something more, but he doesn’t.

Because right that moment, they all hear little Dilly having a coughing fit from the room she’s sleeping in. They wait for it to pass, but Dilly doesn’t stop coughing.

Harry sighs, a shaky breath punching out of him as he turns and goes straight for Dilly’s room. Louis follows him, and Zayn does too. He doesn’t even ask for permission, doesn’t question it with himself, because he’s worried senseless about these people who were only supposed to be a case, but aren’t anymore by now, no matter how much he wants to tell himself that.

When he gets to the doorstep of Dilly’s room, he finds Harry sitting on a small bed, with Delilah sitting in the middle of it, her face red for the effort of coughing so hard, so long. Harry’s shushing her soothingly, rubbing circles on her back. “Daddy, hurts,” Dilly says in-between coughs, putting a small hand to her throat.

Louis is there as well, sitting on a chair on the opposite side of the bed from Harry, and they exchange a quite despaired look. They both look like deer caught in headlights, like they don’t know what to do, like they’ve done nothing but worry for the past weeks.

Zayn takes a breath, and enters the room, his mind whirring as he quickly plans the next moves. The room is so small it can barely be called that, and there's nothing much in it. The small bed has a nightstand next to it, and then there’s a set of drawers in a corner, the chair where Louis is sitting, and nothing else. “Harry?” Zayn says.

Harry looks at him, his eyes huge in his face. Zayn has never seen him so dismayed, not even in the moment when someone called The Shadow was about to fucking break his spine.

“What’s wrong with her? Do you know?” Zayn asks carefully.

Harry sighs and nods. “Sophia says it’s tracheitis,” he replies.

Zayn understands the issue even before he asks. “Sophia?”

“Sophia, she, uh, she studied medicine,” Harry says. “But she didn’t finish. She, like, she helps. She says Dilly needs meds, but she’s not an actual doctor, so she can’t prescribe them.”

“You didn’t take her to a doctor?” Zayn asks, trying not to raise his voice.

Harry flinches, his shoulders slumping, and he stops looking at Zayn to focus on his sick daughter again. “I can’t,” he sniffles. “I, I never legally acknowledged Dilly. Her mother didn’t want me to. And if I did it now, social services would take her away from me in a heartbeat. Look around, Zayn. You know they would.”

Zayn curses under his breath, because he knows Harry’s right. Hell, if he didn’t _know_ there’s more to this situation, _Zayn_ would be the one calling social services on Harry. _That’s why we didn’t find anything about the child._ Zayn has half a mind to shower Harry in questions, where’s Dilly’s mother, what the fuck’s he even doing, if he fucking plans on letting his daughter die with a normal tracheitis just because he has to stay hidden for some reason.

Of course, he doesn’t say any of that. Those are questions for another time. Now, he needs to make sure the kid is properly cured, and there’s really only one way to do that.

“I’m gonna call my sister,” he tells Harry. “She’s a doctor.”

Harry raises a set of panicked eyes at Zayn. “No, Zayn, please, please, don’t tell anyone, she’ll tell someone, she’ll see _this_ and she’ll call someone, she…”

“Harry,” Zayn sighs, sitting next to him and placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder as gently as he can. “Do you trust me?”

Harry chuckles bitterly. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Then trust me when I say that I trust my sister. I’ll talk to her. She won’t call anyone. But your kid needs medicines, right now. All the rest we can deal with afterwards.”

“Listen to him, Harry,” Louis says a bit harshly. “He’s right. We can’t go on hoping cough syrup will make miracles.”

Harry sighs, sniffles, and nods. “Okay. Okay.”

Zayn heaves a relieved sigh, and looks for his phone, going out of the room. He knows it’s super late, but he also knows Doniya never sleeps with her phone turned off, and he’s called her in the middle of the night for much less than a sick toddler. When she answers groggily, he carefully tells her all he can, knowing that Doniya will understand the issue. Zayn knows it’s much to ask from her, to come and visit a kid and then pretend she didn’t see anything, but he really trusts his sister, he has to.

Doni understands, and tells Zayn she’ll get there as quick as possible.

True to her word, Doniya is knocking on Harry’s door less than half an hour later. Zayn lets her in, hugging her and taking in how sleepy she looks. He feels guilty for having woken her up at two in the morning after she spent her whole day at the hospital where she works, but there was no one else he could have called, and his sister knows.

When Doniya gets inside Dilly’s room, Harry’s first reaction is to scoot closer to his child, hugging her to his chest like he doesn’t want Doniya to touch her.

Doni is having none of Harry’s shit, and she arches an eyebrow. “You’re gonna have to let her go if you want me to check her up,” she just tells Harry.

Harry gulps down and eventually lets go of Dilly, who is still coughing a little, although not as much as before. The poor toddler looks out of breath, and Doni sits down on the bed next to her, opening her bag and retrieving a stethoscope, with which she listens to Dilly’s heartbeat on her chest, and through her back.

None of them speaks as Doni gets out a torch in the shape of a pen and gently places her thumb on Dilly’s chin, to make her open her mouth. Dilly whines and shakes her head. Harry, who is still sitting next to her, tries to convince her by whispering things Zayn can’t hear, but Dilly cries and keeps shaking her head.

Doni sighs. “Do you want candy?” she asks Dilly, with a smile.

Dilly blinks, and then nods.

Doni laughs. “Okay then. Open your mouth, and I’ll give you candy.”

That seems to be all it takes. Dilly sniffles and opens her mouth obediently, while Louis mutters something about her having the same sweet tooth as her father, and after Doniya is done with her inspection of Dilly’s mouth and throat, she nods and looks at Harry. “Your friend is right, it’s just tracheitis,” she says firmly. “I’m gonna prescribe you antibiotics, okay? One per day, for seven days. She’s gonna be fine afterwards.”

She takes out a prescription block from her bag, scribbling something on it, and Harry almost falls in a heap on the bed when he sees that Doni is really giving him the chance of finally getting meds for his daughter. Zayn’s heart constricts a little.

Doniya hands Harry the prescription. “There’s a 24/7 pharmacy at the corner with the old cinema downtown. Go there now and buy the meds. You can give her the pills in the morning after breakfast. I can see that you’re scared, but you shouldn’t be. It’s nothing, it’s gonna be alright. Okay?”

Harry nods, and Zayn smiles, because Doni always sounds like she’s scolding you, but she’s actually quite compassionate. “Thank you, miss Malik. Thank you so much,” Harry replies, his voice shaking.

Doniya nods, and then scavenges in her bag, producing a sugar-free lemon lollipop, which she unwraps. She laughs when she sees that Dilly is already there with her mouth open. “Now you open your lil’ mouth without me even telling you, huh?” she comments, and places the lollipop on Dilly’s tongue. Dilly giggles and grabs it by the stick, sucking on it.

Doni winks at Harry. “It’s got throat medicine inside. It’ll make her feel better,” she whispers.

Harry sighs heavily. “Thanks. Thanks. Really. Thanks.”

Doniya waves at him and stands up. “I’m now gonna forget any of this ever happened, as my brother told me to do. It’s very unprofessional and risky for my bloody license, but I trust him, and I can see you’re not a neglecting father, Harry Styles,” she says, more seriously. “But you get your sh… things together, yeah? Whatever it is. Let my brother help you. We’re a family of nightly good Samaritans, apparently.”

Harry doesn’t reply, although he flinches a little, like Doni’s words are blows he needs to parry. Zayn honestly feels the same, but he hopes Doniya’s stern tone is gonna make Harry understand just how much this could fuck up his daughter. In the end, Harry nods.

“And,” Doniya adds, scavenging in her bag some more until she produces a carton box while she points at Harry’s torso, “change those bandages with _real_ ones. Those things are gonna fall off as soon as you move, most likely. It wouldn’t hurt if you also took care of all these bruises like a proper human being. Here,” she hands Harry the box with the clean, good bandages, and also a tube of cream. “Apply the cream on all the bruises and massage until it’s completely absorbed into the skin. It’ll make ‘em heal quicker and hurt less.”

Harry takes all the things from Doni’s hands, a bit dumbfounded, and Zayn chuckles, because he knows Doni can be quite overwhelming. It must be a family trait, he reckons with a smirk.

Dilly has already finished her lollipop. She’s not coughing anymore, and she looks like she’s breathing a little bit better now that the medicine in the sweet is probably kicking in. She sighs and rests her curly head on the pillow, snuffling and falling right asleep.

Harry sighs shakily, tucking her in while his own curls fall around his face, hiding it.

Doniya steps out of the room, and Zayn goes with her, showing her to the door. “Zayn?” she murmurs when they hug.

“Yeah, sis.”

“Do you really know what you’re doing?”

Zayn nods. “I do. There’s… there’s something scaring him. It’s about his child. Until we don’t know what it is, I can’t tell anyone about the kid. You understand, Doni, don’t you? I would never ask you to keep your mouth shut on this if I had another solution.”

Doniya lets Zayn go and nods. “I know, lil’ bro, I know. Be careful, yeah? With the kid, and the father. He looks like a caged animal. And, well, this whole place kinda feels like a cage,” she comments, waving her hand around.

Zayn sighs. “I’ll make sure they’re fine. I’ll help them.”

“Okay. Goodnight. If… like, if he needs an illegal doctor again, tell him he can call me,” she says at last, rolling her eyes.

Zayn chuckles. “Cheers, sis. Drive safe.”

As soon as Doniya’s gone and the door is closed again, Zayn turns on his heels to go back to Harry and tell him he can take care of fetching the meds, but he’s met with a granite chest and solid arms wrapping around him. Harry hugs him so tight Zayn almost can’t breathe, but he lets Harry do as he pleases, because it’s nice, and because it feels like Harry needs it. “Thank you,” Harry sniffles, his face buried in Zayn’s neck. “Thank you for calling her. Thank you.”

Zayn sighs. His own arms go easily around Harry’s middle, holding him tight. “It’s okay, Harry. You heard her, right? Dilly’s okay. She’s gonna be fine. Now why don’t you go get some rest and I’ll go get the meds?”

Harry lets Zayn go and blinks at him. “You wanna go get the meds for me?” he asks, a bit surprised.

Zayn shrugs. “Nightly good Samaritans, as my sister said.”

Harry chuckles. “I can go. It’s okay.”

“Nope,” Zayn insists. “You’re still all beaten up, it’s not like you should drive. I’ll go.”

“How about,” Harry says, a ghost of his usual smirk blooming on his lips, “you give me time to put some clothes on, and we go together? I’ll let you drive.”

+

“Dilly’s Mum is out of the picture,” Harry says out of the blue as they’re in his car, with Zayn driving, on their way back to _The Creek_ with a box of antibiotics safely stored in the inside pocket of Harry’s jacket.

Zayn keeps his eyes on the road. “Is she…”

“No, she ain’t dead, but she might as well be,” Harry says with a chuckle. “Three years ago, like, we were dating. It wasn’t anything serious, we were literally just starting to go out and such. Her name’s Meredith. She got pregnant. I’d just gotten a job as an editor, but I’m sure you know all about my old job, don’t you?” he asks. It’s not mean, though, just a bit bitter.

“Yes, Harry, I know,” Zayn confirms nonetheless. “But I don’t know anything about _you_ , apparently.”

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know anything about myself either,” Harry comments. “I’m… I’m so different from _that_ Harry. But I’m also still the same. I still like books. I still like correcting papers. I still know _Hamlet_ by heart.”

Zayn chuckles. “What happened after you found out Meredith was pregnant?” he asks.

“She wanted to keep the child. I wanted the same. But Meredith was, like, getting tired of me I guess? She said we should break up, that I could help with raising the child, but she wanted to be the one keeping Dilly. I agreed. I even agreed not to acknowledge Dilly, to avoid any legal trouble. Meredith kinda hated my guts, I think, but she never prevented me from seeing my daughter, and that was enough for me. But raising a child costs _so much_ , Zayn, I wasn’t even remotely prepared for that. By the time Dilly was two months, all my savings were gone, and the shitty pay at the publishing company wasn’t enough, at all.”

“You never told your parents? Why? They would have helped you,” Zayn comments, taking a right turn at a streetlight.

Harry chuckles. Zayn sees him look around the street a bit nervously, but he doesn’t comment on that. “I know,” Harry replies. “I was very close to telling them. But I never did, because before I could decide, I met Grant. He’s the current owner of _The Creek_. I was in a bar fight that night. I was a little bit drunk. I was nervous and worried all the time, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to take care of my child anymore, and I just wanted to, like, unwind a little. So I got a bit drunk, and I was at the bar, looking at one of Dilly’s pacifiers I had found in my pocket, and this guy made fun of me for it. And I punched him in the face. There was a bit of a brawl, and then Grant was the one separating us. He brought me out and made me sober up, and then he told me I had the build and the strength and the anger, so I should give a try to illegal boxing at his club. I laughed, I wasn’t even thinking about hitting people for a living, I’m, like, I know it sounds stupid and ridiculous, but I’ve never been a violent person, Zayn, believe me.”

Zayn nods, a bit frantically. “I know, Harry, I know. I’ve watched you. I know you’re not a violent person, despite what you do. So why did you even consider Grant’s offer?”

Harry shrugs. “Because he told me how much he would pay me if I won. It was three times what I earned at the company. So I said yes. I went there, did a little bit of intensive training with the… the former owner of _The Creek_ , for two months. Then I went on the ring, and I won. I got paid. So I went back, and I won again. And again, again and again.”

“And you never told your family about Delilah because you couldn’t tell them you’d gotten into underground boxing as well,” Zayn finishes for him.

Harry nods. “Yeah. But it was okay, like, I had bruises all the time and Gemma gave me a hard time, she notices everything, she loves me a lot, and I love her too, and my parents as well, but it was okay, because I had money to raise my child, and that was all that mattered. A couple bruises are nothing, _nothing_ , compared to my daughter’s wellbeing.”

Zayn nods too. He understands where Harry comes from, but it’s still not enough, it still doesn’t give Zayn any details about what changed, what made him disappear a month earlier. He can only imagine it has to do with Meredith going out of the picture, but he needs more.

Harry, though, doesn’t seem willing to keep speaking. He’s looking at his own hands, his ringed fingers still specked with blood, and Zayn can’t stand that Harry needs to have blood on his hands to provide for his daughter and keep her safe from things Zayn still doesn’t know about. _He said someone wants to hurt her. He mentioned a “he”. Who is it?_

Zayn doesn’t press for more info. They’ve finally gotten back to _The Creek_ , and he parks Harry’s car on the back, where the quite shady parking lot is now empty. Then, before Harry can open the car door and get out, Zayn undoes his seatbelt and faces him. “A couple bruises are nothing until they become something worse, Harry,” he says seriously.

Harry gulps down, and nods. “I know. I know, Zayn, believe me, I get on that ring every night worrying that I won’t be able to go back to my child. But there’s nothing else I can do, now.”

Zayn takes in Harry’s demised expression, the way his eyes can’t seem to be able to hold Zayn’s gaze, and the way he’s fidgeting with his rings, like he’s ashamed, like he’s afraid Zayn will judge him poorly.

But Zayn can’t judge him, can he? Because he’s made his own errors of judgement, which are exactly what led him to be in a car with Harry Styles at three in the morning, and because he knows by now just how much Harry cares about his daughter.

So Zayn swiftly but slowly hooks his fingers into the collar of Harry’s t-shirt, grabbing a fistful of it before pulling so that their faces are close together. Then, he kisses Harry. It’s a bit painful, because they both have bruises on their lower lips from Harry’s fight, and the position is not really comfortable, with them crammed into the small space of Harry’s car, but it’s okay.

Harry sighs against Zayn’s lips, closing his eyes at the contact, and Zayn opens his mouth for him. Harry takes the hint in the span of a breath, slowly sliding his tongue into Zayn’s mouth and licking his way inside it. Zayn thinks Harry tastes like mint and blood, but it’s not a bad taste. It’s intoxicating, and he wants to savour it.

Even when they stop kissing to come up for air, Harry’s mouth doesn’t go far from Zayn’s. They stay there, breathing on each other’s lips, for a moment. “I know that there’s nothing else you can do, Harry,” Zayn says slowly. “But this is not all _you are_.”

Harry chuckles, and goes for another kiss before replying. “Thanks, pretty lil’ thing.”

Zayn chuckles too. “I’m not a thing. Besides, you call _your daughter_ that too. It’s weird that you call me the same.”

Harry shrugs. “She’s a pretty lil’ thing. And you’re a pretty lil’ thing just the same,” he says simply.

Zayn rolls his eyes, and he can’t help but kissing Harry one more time, pushing back all thoughts of _what the fuck am I actually doing_. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he tells Harry. “Well, not lied. Omitted things,” he then amends.

Harry’s eyes close off a little when Zayn reminds him about the whole deal, and Zayn feels his muscles tense under the hand he’s rested on Harry’s bicep. “Would you have had sex with me, yesterday?” he asks firmly. “Would you have gone to _that_ length, just to gather your info?”

Zayn shakes his head. “No. It, like, it would have been so fucking wrong, I would have never done that. I came to your locker room because I couldn’t let you just vanish. But while you snogged me I was thinking about just how _not_ to have sex with you, and be able to see you again anyway.”

Harry chuckles, and relaxes. “It’s the first time I’m actually glad while someone tells me they didn’t wanna have sex with me.”

Zayn grins. He knows it’s so fucking dangerous, to get so involved with this man, to blur the lines of a job and a fucking _crush_ so much, but he’s gone and done that, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop thinking about Harry Styles anyway, he never was, even before meeting him in person. “I said I wouldn’t have done that, because it was just wrong,” Zayn specifies on Harry’s lips. “I never said I didn’t want to.”

Harry blinks. It takes him a moment to register what Zayn means, and the second later his mouth is opening in a filthy grin, the grin of the Cheshire Cat, the smug smirk that makes Zayn feel small and scrawny, but in a sexy way. “Good to know, then,” Harry just murmurs.

Zayn nods. “Yeah. Good to know.”

+

After they get back to Harry’s place and Harry vanishes into another room, probably Louis’s—or maybe _their_ room, maybe they share it, Zayn doesn’t exactly know—Zayn doesn’t know what to do.

Or better, he knows what he _should_ do. He should go away, go home, get some rest, and call Liam in the morning to tell him everything. His feet don’t want to move, though, and while he takes the liberty of using Harry’s bathroom, he comes to terms with the fact he doesn’t want to leave.

The bathroom is very small, with barely enough space for a sink, a shower and a toilet, and Zayn sits on the closed lid of the toilet as he brushes his sore face with his hands, and tries to think rationally.

He takes out his phone. There are a couple texts from Liam, asking him where he is. _I’m with Harry Styles. Don’t worry, everything’s fine. I’ll explain tomorrow_ , he texts Liam, because he knows he has to tell Liam about what he’s found out. He hopes Liam will also understand the situation.

Zayn looks at himself in the small mirror on top of the sink. He knows he has more flowers under his beard, because Harry has more bruises of his own on his jaws, but they’re thankfully still covered. He examines the one on his lower lip, but it’s so small it doesn’t even look like a flower, so maybe Harry won’t notice that either. Zayn knows he can’t hide the fact that they’re soulmates for long, but Harry had a fucking shitty night, and he doesn’t want to deliver him one more blow so soon, when he already took so many in the last hours, physical and moral. It’ll need to wait.

The door of the bathroom is open, so he hears Harry’s careful steps on the wooden tiles quite clearly, before he sees him standing in the doorway. He removed his top again, and Zayn is a bit taken aback by just how many bruises are forming on his skin. His impromptu bandage on the cut on his shoulder has fallen off just as Doni predicted, and there are marks in various shades of purple and blue on his collarbones, his pecs, his sides. Zayn dreads the moment he’ll be able to look at himself, because he can feel all the soreness of those bruises on his own body as well. His torso must look like a painful work of art right now, under the shirt.

Harry’s holding some clothes in his hands, and he clears his throat. “Do you, uh, do you wanna sleep here? It’s four in the morning, I don’t want you to drive home at this hour. I brought you clothes.”

Zayn smiles, and it’s easy, too easy, to nod and accept. He stands up, and the closer he gets to Harry, the more his eyes drop to Harry’s chest for an entirely different reason than the bruises.

He doesn’t even realize he’s touching Harry until Harry’s pecs contract under the pads of his fingers. Zayn gulps down, not even daring to raise his eyes to Harry. “I can…” he says, and his voice betrays him, breaks, so he clears his throat. “I can take care of these bruises for you. With the things Doni left you.”

Harry chuckles. “You said there was no fucking chance you’d tend to my wounds, pretty lil’ thing.”

“I’m not a thing,” Zayn replies rolling his eyes. “And I said that before I saw a fucking gorilla trying to break your spine.”

Harry laughs quietly. “Dermot’s just pissed at me ‘cause I snatched the title of champion of _The Creek_ from him on my very first month fighting, two years ago. I can give him the pent-up frustration.”

“I can give him a kick in the bollocks,” Zayn retorts. “I mean, I would. I wouldn’t probably manage. But I’d die trying, that’s for sure.”

Harry’s hand closes around Zayn’s hip, not hard, but firmly. “No need for that. Dermot would be dead before he even managed to tear a single hair from your head,” he whispers.

“Yeah, by the way, thanks for defending my honour back there. Although you’re stupid. It was clearly only meant to make you lose your focus. Which you did.”

“No one speaks about my pretty lil’ thing like that,” Harry declares, shrugging.

Zayn finally tilts his head to be able to look at Harry in the eyes, and he finds a lot of things in them. There’s mirth and worry, smugness and sheepishness, pride and anger. “Sophia says you’re smitten with me,” Zayn says. He doesn’t mean to, but it crawls out of his mouth before he can think. He decides to blame it on Harry being so close and so scantily clothed, rather than on anything else he’s feeling.

Harry clears his throat. “What if I am?”

“How can you be? We don’t know each other.”

“Do you remember earlier, when you told me you’re good at reading people?”

Zayn nods.

“I’m good at that too. When I got my eyes on you, it was only ‘cause you were fit. But then I saw something else, too.”

“What’s that?” Zayn asks. He’s ashamed of how much his voice has dropped, how he’s tilting his head more, how he’s speaking with his eyes fixed on Harry’s lips, and how he’s almost rising on the balls of his feet so that their mouths can be closer.

Harry chuckles. “One day I’ll tell you. Think I told you a fair share of things for tonight already.”

Zayn, despite himself, chuckles too. “Fair,” he admits. “Come on then. Let’s get to work on these bruises, they’re so many we could stay up tending to them until the sun’s high in the sky.”

Harry wiggles his eyebrows. “Or we could be doing something else until the sun’s high in the sky.”

“I doubt you have the strength to hold me up against the wall right now, Harry Styles.”

Harry sighs dramatically. “Next time I’ll deliver, then.”

“If I’m still in the mood next time,” Zayn specifies with an arched eyebrow.

Harry chuckles. His hand wraps around the side of Zayn’s face, and Zayn has to actively fight to prevent his eyelids from fluttering when Harry brings their foreheads together, and their lips brush. “Feisty,” Harry whispers. “I’ll make sure you’re still in the mood.”

“Shut up,” Zayn mutters, feeling his dick fatten up in his jeans, and hoping Harry won’t notice.

Harry chuckles, and lets Zayn go, turning on his heels and leading him to a third room in the narrow corridor. “Won’t we wake Louis up?” Zayn asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Harry looks at him over his shoulder, with a grin. “I don’t share a bedroom with Louis. The house is small, but we managed to get separate rooms. Grant’s courtesy,” he explains in a whisper.

They get past the threshold, and Zayn looks around. It’s a bedroom, but just because there’s a bed in it. For the rest, there’s nothing there, just a small closet, a nightstand with only one drawer and a small lamp on top, and no desk, no chair, no anything else. The walls are bare. Zayn doesn’t comment on that, and if Harry understands his expression, he doesn’t say either.

The night lamp is on, so they don’t turn on the main lights in the room. Harry heaves a big sigh when he finally sits on the bed, bouncing a little, and then he falls on his back, his arms rested on each side of his head. Zayn stands next to him, getting impossibly aroused by the shadows cast by the warm little light on the indents of Harry’s muscles. Harry has his eyes closed. “Your sister’s things are in the drawer,” he slurs.

Zayn shakes his head to clear it. “Okay,” he just replies, rummaging through the drawer so that he won’t have to look at Harry’s stupidly hard torso or his stupid biceps.

There’s a box of condoms, a bottle of lube, and some socks in the drawer. Zayn resolutely ignores all of the items, and then finally manages to retrieve the other box, the one with the bandages, and the tube of cream Doniya gifted Harry out of the kindness of her heart.

Zayn takes a deep breath, and sits on the edge of the bed next to Harry, who is still in the same position, arms splayed by his head and chest bared for Zayn. He still has his eyes closed, and for a moment Zayn thinks he’s fallen asleep, but then Harry cracks one eye open and grins at Zayn. “Like what you see?”

Zayn has no remorse when he slaps his open palm on Harry’s chest. Harry _oof_ s and contracts his pecs under Zayn’s hand, and Zayn’s dick gives a traitorous twitch when he feels how hard the muscles there are. He tries to retreat his hand, but Harry wraps his fingers around Zayn’s wrist, and smirks. “Taking advantage of a fallen adversary. That’s against the rules.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “I believe I heard that there are no rules around here.”

Harry grins. “You learn quickly, pretty lil’ thing,” he comments, letting go of Zayn’s wrist.

“I’m not a thing,” Zayn replies lazily. “Now shut up and let’s do this.”

Harry grins again and sighs, settling better with his head in the pillow. “Do with me what you will,” he slurs.

_Don’t fucking tempt me_ , Zayn thinks but doesn’t say. He uncaps the cream and squirts a little in his palm, rubbing it so it’s not that cold before setting both his hands on Harry’s chest, where the bruises are, and starting to massage the cream into the skin. He takes extra care of the spot on Harry’s shoulder where the Shadow has opened a cut with his nails, sticking a _real_ bandage on it when he's done, and then proceeds to pay attention to the big bruises on his stomach, one of which belongs to the fight with Greg the day before. It's already fading, because apparently Harry’s skin recovers quickly, and Zayn kinda already knew, because his flowers hurt, but they thankfully also fade quickly.

Zayn keeps his eyes focused on the bruises and his own hands, but feeling Harry up like that is affecting him an awful lot. He feels his dick strain against the jeans he’s still wearing, and he hopes that it doesn’t show yet, but there’s no point in that, because he then sees Harry’s own dick starting to tent his sweats.

Zayn’s hands stop immediately, his palms against Harry’s lower stomach. He finds it in himself to raise his gaze from the ferns tattooed on Harry’s hips, and he’s met with green, firm eyes, parted lips, and flushed cheeks. They don’t interrupt their eye contact, but one of Harry’s hands travels down until it’s wrapped around Zayn’s wrist, again. “You should stop doing this if you want me to behave,” Harry whispers, rasps roughly with his voice so low it only gives Zayn a full boner.

Zayn realizes that he, quite frankly, doesn’t feel like behaving himself. He swings a leg over Harry’s hips so that he’s straddling him, and grinds down immediately, just a little, just to have some friction and give some to Harry as well. Harry groans quietly, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Zayn,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, kitty?”

Harry’s eyes open again, and Zayn thinks that in those dim lights they really look like a cat’s, flashing and mischievous and a lot of other things Zayn should stay clear of, but can’t. Harry grabs the front of Zayn’s shirt and pulls him down, and the next moment they’re kissing, hard and fast, with their tongues clashing against one another, and Zayn bucks his hips, the zipper of his jeans painfully bothering him.

None of them moves to do more. They keep staying there, snogging and grinding, Zayn’s hands still slippery with the cream as they travel up and down Harry’s bruised torso, his rippling biceps, his toned sides. Harry groans right in Zayn’s mouth after Zayn applies just a little more pressure to their cocks. “Gonna make me come in my pants like a teenager,” Harry mutters on Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn chuckles. “I’m sure your _manliness_ won’t be hurt by a little bit of dry humping,” he replies, feeling embarrassingly close to coming himself.

It only dawns on him some moments later, as Harry’s hands start to fumble with his shirt, that he can’t let Harry see him naked, because most of the flower bruises will be hidden among all of Zayn’s ink, but some won’t be. He feels a bit like a fraud and a bit like he’s taking advantage of the situation, but he accelerates his grinding nonetheless, rolling his hips with movements so filthy they make his own cheeks flush with warmth.

Harry groans again, his fingers on Zayn’s buttons faltering as he just digs them in Zayn’s sides, his head thrown backwards on the pillows. “Fuck, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” he growls.

Zayn chuckles. “Then come for me, Harry Styles,” he urges.

Harry does. His mouth gapes open, his eyelids flutter, and he fucks up into nothing, rattling Zayn’s whole body on top of him. Zayn can’t see it since Harry’s crotch is still perfectly clothed, but he feels warmth pooling in between his legs, and he feels Harry’s cock twitch and throb.

That’s what brings him off as well, in his jeans. He gives a couple more dry thrusts, and then he’s coming too, his shoulders shaking as he tries not to collapse on top of Harry by holding himself upright with his hands on either side of Harry’s head. They look at each other as they come and then come down from it, panting on each other’s mouth, their groins an utter mess of damp clothes and sticky come.

“Fuck, pretty lil’ thing,” Harry chuckles as soon as he recovers his breath. His hand goes up to Zayn’s face, tucking a stray lock that escaped his topknot behind his ear.

Zayn chuckles too. “I’m not a thing,” he replies. “But yeah. Fuck.”

Harry laughs. “Not yet. There’ll be a time for actual fucking, sooner or later. I still owe you that hold-me-up-against-the-wall fuck.”

Zayn does his best to grin, deciding that he’ll think about all the rest, just not tonight. “Can’t wait to see you deliver. Kitty,” he says, and then hops off the bed, grabbing the clothes Harry gave him but he never wore, before going to the bathroom to change.

Zayn examines himself in the mirror after he changes into the sweats and tank top, and he sighs in relief when he realizes most of the new flowers aren’t discernible amidst his tattoos, and the few that are actually visible are covered by the top. He takes time to brush his teeth as best as he can with a little toothpaste on his pointer finger, and then goes back to Harry’s room.

Harry has changed into another pair of sweats, and he’s lying down on his side, snuffling and almost asleep when Zayn slides under the duvet with him. _What the fuck am I doing, sleeping with him like this?_ , he thinks, but shakes his head.

Harry grins sleepily. “Could have let me at least watch you undress. You’re cruel, pretty lil’ thing.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “I’m not a thing. Sleep, kitty.”

Harry nods, closing his eyes. “Goodnight, Zayn.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” he answers, but while Harry falls asleep almost on the spot, it takes Zayn an awfully longer time to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	5. Dibs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She wants to go out. She’s feeling so fucking restless, it… it breaks my heart, a little,” Louis says carefully.  
> Harry sighs. He stares down at Dilly, who has almost fallen asleep again, quietly snuffling on his chest. “We can’t,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and the original characters.

Zayn wakes up with a heavy weight on his stomach, and it’s not metaphorical.

As he slowly blinks the sleep away from his eyes, he’s met with a shit-eating grin and green eyes. Harry’s sitting right in Zayn’s lap, the hard plains of his torso bathed in the sunlight filtering through the blinds at the window, and loose curls all around. Zayn registers the way his bruises seem to be already fading, thanks to Doniya’s cream and Harry’s own quick recovery superpower or summat, and he blesses that fact, because Harry’s hand is running up and down Zayn’s stomach, under the tank top, but still so close to his flowers. Zayn’s still dressed, though, and he knows the flowers are fading already as well, because the flower-bruises always fade in synch with the real marks they come from.

Zayn also realizes how hard he is in the sweats Harry lent him. Harry’s hard as well, lazily grinding into his crotch as he keeps being seated in Zayn’s lap. He’s been probably waiting for Zayn to wake up for a while, even though it’s quite early in the morning. The clock on Zayn’s phone reads 8:00.

As Zayn looks at his phone, he notices a fuckton of missed calls from Liam, and he doesn’t even have time to roll his eyes before it starts ringing again, Liam’s name and contact pic invading the screen.

Harry bends his back over, so that he can nose at Zayn’s jaw. “Been ringing for fucking forever,” he murmurs in Zayn’s neck. “Answer. Before I break it in half,” he adds, grinding down.

Zayn groans. His hand reflexively grabs one of Harry’s biceps, fingers digging in the muscle, while the other holding the phone falters a bit. “Leeyum?” he says into the phone when he answers, nonetheless.

Liam grunts a quite creative curse. “What _the fuck_ do you think you’re doing, texting me that you’re with Harry fucking Styles at three in the bloody morning and then adding _I’ll explain tomorrow_ and then never answering your fucking phone?” he shrieks.

Zayn’s eyelids tremble. “’S not morning yet,” he slurs. Harry chuckles in his neck and slowly rubs their crotches together, which makes Zayn’s whole body shiver underneath him. “’S the crack of bloody dawn.”

“I don’t _care_!” Liam shouts. “Where are you? What are you doing? What happened?”

Zayn sighs. Harry tilts his head up and looks at him in the eyes, nodding just slightly, like he wants to tell Zayn he can speak to his friend about him. Zayn nods in return. “Listen, I, um, I found out some things about Harry last night. It’s all good, though, it’s alright, Liam, okay?”

Liam grunts again. “What do you mean?” he asks, more quietly.

“I’ll tell you in person. There are… details we didn’t know. I’ll tell you later, I promise, okay? Trust me with this, Liam.”

Zayn can feel Liam roll his eyes even if he can’t see him. “Okay,” he sighs anyway. “Where are you now?”

“Still at Harry’s. I, um, slept here.”

“You _slept with him_?” Liam shouts again, his rage fuelled again.

Zayn winces at the piercing scream. “I slept _at his place_ , I didn’t sleep _with him_. Well. We shared a bed. But we didn’t sleep together,” he says, looking down at Harry who has resumed his grinding on Zayn’s hips and he’s also kissing and licking at Zayn’s jugular now.

When he hears what Zayn says, though, he stops. He sends a wicked grin at Zayn, and sits up, his back straight while he still straddles Zayn’s now painfully hard cock, and the next moment he’s prying Zayn’s phone away from his hand and bringing it to his own ear. Zayn gasps and tries to take it back, but Harry just easily blocks his hand and swats it away. “Hello, this is Harry Styles,” he says into the phone. Zayn gapes at him. Harry chuckles, Liam screams something Zayn can’t decipher. Harry nods. “Yes, Zayn slept here and we didn’t sleep together because I promised him to fuck him against a wall holding him up but I got the shit beaten out of me on the ring last night and I wasn’t in the proper physical conditions to do that. Yes, you heard me correctly. I am currently straddling his lap and I don’t plan on fucking him because we’re not alone in the house, but I will try to make him come by dry humping him, which I can’t do if you keep us on the phone. No, I didn’t hit my head. ‘S just the way I am.”

Zayn feels all the blood rush to his face—or well, all the blood that has not already rushed to his dick anyway—as Harry keeps his grin while he tells Liam all of that, and he can hear Liam give out some mighty squeals, which bring Harry to wince and snicker as he distances the phone from his ear for a moment. Then, he clears his throat. “Very well. It was a pleasure speaking to you, Mr. Payne. You are cordially invited for my next winning match, it’s gonna be the day after tomorrow. I’ll offer you a beer to pay for Zayn’s innocence, which I plan on taking sooner than that. Have a wonderful day,” he concludes shamelessly, handing the phone to Zayn again.

Zayn takes it, completely dumbfounded, and brings it back to his ear. “Leeyum?” he says warily, afraid his friend just had a stroke.

Liam whimpers. “Jesus Christ, he just took _my_ innocence too, what the fuck does that bloke even _think_?”

Zayn chuckles. “I reckon he thinks about sex a lot.”

“Yeah no shit. What the fuck are _you_ thinking?”

Zayn sighs. “It’s really fine, Leeyum, I promise, okay? You trust me, right?”

“I do,” Liam concedes. “I trust other people less, though.”

“Don’t worry. It’s fine. As I said, I’ll tell you all in person later. Liam? I need you to shut up on this for a while longer. On the whole… finding Harry Styles thing,” he says seriously. Harry’s wicked grin also falls away, replaced by a stern gaze, and the movements of his hips halt. “If the Styles’ call for some reason, you can’t tell them yet. Swear it to me,” Zayn adds for good measure.

Liam sighs. “Of course. I don’t even know what I could tell ‘em without making them all flip. I won’t say anything. I only hope you really know what you’re doing, Zed.”

“I do,” Zayn replies, although maybe it’s a little bit of a lie.

“Okay. See you later then. Wherever you are and whatever you’re doing apart from apparently dry humping Harry Styles, be careful.”

Zayn chuckles, and as soon as he does, Harry seems to understand Liam is listening to Zayn, and he relaxes too. “Cheers, Leeyum. See you later,” he says, and ends the call.

“Fucking hell, how _much_ do you talk?” Harry comments, lowly in his throat, as he bends over Zayn again and places his lips in the hollow of Zayn’s collarbones, starting to grind down again, more forcefully.

Zayn groans. “He, ah, worries about me,” he replies, his hands going up and down Harry’s wide back.

Harry isn’t sucking any mark into Zayn’s skin, and Zayn hopes with all his heart that he doesn’t.

Harry hums. “Yeah, I can imagine,” he says softly. “I’d worry about you all the time, too. Going about being so sexy and innocent and edible as you do.”

Zayn chuckles, and he can’t help but dig his fingers in Harry’s back more forcefully. “I’ve got my own claws,” he assures.

Harry laughs in his neck, and thrusts harder. “I know, believe me. My pretty lil’ thing with pretty lil’ claws.”

“I’m not a thing,” Zayn retorts, but it’s breathy and groggy as Harry seems intentioned to repay Zayn for the dry humping of the night before.

Right that moment, they hear a giggle and a clearing of throat, and Harry immediately tenses. “Ah, shit,” he mutters, quickly jumping off Zayn’s lap and sitting on the bed. Zayn sits up as well, making sure the duvet is covering his raging boner.

Sure enough, Dilly is on the doorstep of the room with Louis, who is arching his eyebrows so high they’re almost disappearing into his hairline.

Zayn looks at Harry, but Harry’s smiling brightly at Dilly, and it doesn’t seem like he wants to look at anything else in that moment. “Good morning, my pretty lil’ thing,” he says, stretching his arms towards her. “C’mere, you.”

Dilly giggles and instantly runs to the bed, and she’s of course not tall enough to climb it properly. Hell, she isn’t even old enough to speak or walk properly, but she tries, she struggles at the edge of the bed. She looks better than the night before, her face not so flushed and her breath even. Harry doesn’t help her, just watches her with a smile as he patiently waits for her to overcome the obstacle by herself.

She does. She grabs the duvet for leverage, with Harry tightly holding the other end so the bedding won’t slip away and let her fall, and then Dilly uses it to haul herself up on the bed, swinging a tiny leg over the mattress at last and screeching victoriously.

Harry laughs and claps for his kid. “Yay! You made it all by yourself!” he exclaims proudly.

Dilly giggles and tackles him, resting herself on Harry’s chest as he plops down with his back on the mattress. “Hi Daddy,” she smiles toothily.

Harry grins right back at her. “Hi, pretty lil’ thing.”

Dilly sighs and places her cheek on Harry’s chest while he holds her. Zayn is honestly a bit mesmerized by the scene, so much that he forgets they have an audience in the form of Louis Tomlinson, who just found them in bed together and dry humping. Louis reminds them all of his presence by clearing his throat very loudly.

Dilly gasps and jolts on Harry’s chest. “Lou sick too?” she asks Harry.

Harry chuckles. “No, baby. Lou is just being a shit,” he declares.

Zayn kicks at him by sheer reflex. “Language,” he hisses at Harry before he even realizes what he’s doing, pointing at the child with his head. Harry stares at him from under Dilly’s little weight, and he just grins.

“Yeah, Lou is being a _silly man_ and your Daddy’s being even _more_ silly, my love,” Louis declares stepping inside the room. He looks pissed, but Zayn thinks he can spot a little quirk to his mouth, like he’s holding back laughter. “Greg brought us groceries. I made breakfast. She already ate and took her first pill. It was a nightmare to make her swallow it. Next time, you do it, I don’t wanna feel like I’m torturing my non-biological niece ever again,” he tells Harry, hands on his hips.

Harry smiles at Louis. “Cheers, Lou. You didn’t have to, I could have done it.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You were too busy being a teenager, didn’t wanna interrupt you,” he replies good-naturedly. “Haz?” he then calls, his tone more serious.

Harry hums, his big hands stroking Dilly’s back. One of his palms is almost enough to cover the toddler’s tiny spine.

“She wants to go out. She’s feeling so fucking restless, it… it breaks my heart, a little,” Louis says carefully.

Harry sighs. He stares down at Dilly, who has almost fallen asleep again, quietly snuffling on his chest. “We can’t,” he says.

Louis nods. “I know. But maybe, like, maybe just a walk around the block? Just think about it. Your choice,” he tells Harry, already raising his hands in surrendering.

Harry doesn’t reply. Zayn looks at him and Dilly, and his stomach constricts a little. When the silence becomes too heavy, Zayn brings his eyes to Louis, who just arches an eyebrow at him. “Breakfast’s ready. Get out of bed. You can dry hump later,” he just declares, and then he goes.

Harry chuckles. “Sorry about him. He always sounds like he’s pissed at you. But he’s a ball of sunshine, I promise.”

Zayn snorts. “More like a ball of fire.”

“Eh, that too.”

Zayn clears his throat and then starts wriggling out of the covers. “I, uh, I think I’ll leave you alone now. Get out of your hair,” he says embarrassedly, not knowing what to do.

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but Dilly seems to be quicker, because she blinks at Zayn and then stretches a tiny hand towards him, clenching and unclenching her fist.

Harry chuckles, looking down at her. “Wanna tell Zayn your name, baby?” he whispers.

Dilly nods, but she doesn’t say anything. Zayn waits.

Harry chuckles again. He looks so fucking different from the scared man he was the night before, and so fucking different from the Cheshire Cat. _He looks like a father_ , Zayn realizes with a pang to his heart. “Hello, Zayn,” Harry recites. “My name is…”

“Delilah Ophelia Styles,” Dilly says, her consonants a bit fucked up. “Dilly,” she adds.

Harry smiles fondly. “Her middle name isn’t actually registered. Meredith was supposed to do it, but she only registered her as Delilah. And, um, she doesn’t really have my surname,” he mutters, looking at her, but talking to Zayn. “It’s, uh, Moore, like, Meredith’s surname. But I would love for her to have mine. So, I, like, I taught her to say that. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Zayn sighs, settling down on the bed again, on his side so he’s closer to the kid. And to Harry.

Harry shrugs, making Dilly rattle and giggle. “I dunno. Maybe you think it’s wrong. That I didn’t even acknowledge her but I want her to say she’s called Styles.”

“It’s not like you didn’t _want to_ acknowledge her, though,” Zayn replies a bit too heatedly. “I understand. I think it’s a bit too fancy, to call a kid Ophelia, but you’re the Shakespeare expert, and she seems to like it,” he grins at Harry. “Hello, Delilah Ophelia Styles,” he then says slowly, to the kid. “My name is Zayn Malik,” he adds, stretching his index finger for her.

She giggles and wraps her little digits around Zayn’s finger, blinking and staring at Harry’s rose ring still on it. She exclaims something happily, but Zayn doesn’t understand her cooing.

Harry laughs. “Yeah, baby, that’s Daddy’s ring with the flower.”

Zayn must look a bit surprised that Harry understood Dilly’s baby talk, but that’s only fair, isn’t it? _He’s her father_. Harry smiles at Zayn, one dimple digging in his cheek, deeper than Zayn’s ever seen in person. “She, like, she doesn’t talk much yet, she’s too young, but sometimes she does. Other times she does these whole monologues, it’s so funny. I, uh, I understand what she says, but nobody else does. My Mum once told me that I did the same, and she was the only one who understood what I was saying. Must be a family trait.”

Zayn smiles too, although his heart skips a beat when Harry mentions his family, because he can see the longing and hurt in his green eyes. “’S cool, yeah? It’s like you have a secret code with your daughter,” he comments, hoping it’ll lighten Harry’s mood.

It does. Harry smiles again, holding Dilly a bit tighter, and sighing. “A secret code. I like it,” he says.

Dilly giggles. “Secret!” she exclaims, all wrong, but Zayn catches that one.

Harry stays silent for a moment, and then looks at Zayn again. “I gotta get some food in my body and then I gotta go downstairs to train a little. Get the soreness out of my muscles. Wanna stay?”

Zayn shouldn’t, but he nods and agrees to stay for the second time in less than twelve hours.

+

Harry was hungrier than he let on, because as soon as they sit at the small—too small—table in the middle of the weird room that acts as both living room and kitchen, he fucking starts to scarf down his food, so much that Dilly sighs dramatically and scolds him, screaming “Slow, Daddy!” at him.

When he’s done, Zayn and Louis (and Dilly too, because she was so sick the day before that she didn’t eat much, so Harry lets her have a second breakfast) are still eating. Harry stands up and goes to the bathroom, to shower, which leaves Zayn alone with Louis.

They don’t speak much. Dilly rambles to herself while she eats, and Zayn doesn’t understand a single word. Louis understands some things, because he laughs and snorts at the kid every once in a while. Zayn feels a bit out of place, a bit judged by Louis Tomlinson’s clear eyes, and a bit like he wants to leave and stay forever at the same time.

“Zayn?” Louis says at last.

Zayn looks at him. Louis’s eyes are lowered to his empty plate, and they look so infinitely sad that Zayn has a sudden urge to hug him, which of course he doesn’t.

“If…” Louis clears his throat, sniffles, clears his throat again. “If you ever see Eleanor. Can you, uh, can you tell her you spoke to me and I said ‘Chihuahua’?”

Zayn frowns. “Your girlfriend almost bit my nose off because my job is bullshit, and you want me to tell her the word ‘Chihuahua’ from you and hope she won’t kick me in the bollocks.”

Louis laughs, a bit more carelessly than all the smirks and chuckles he’s produced himself in during the night and the morning. “She’ll understand. It’s like, a code we have. For when we can’t speak, but we want the other to know we’re still there. It’ll be enough for her, I hope,” he says, gulping down some air. “It kills me, sometimes. That she doesn’t know why I left. But I couldn’t tell her. Still can’t. I miss her so much. Can you do that for me without jeopardizing Harry and Dilly, and ruining the very reason I had to leave?”

Zayn still doesn’t know the reason they had to leave, but he nods nonetheless. “Okay. If I see her and she doesn’t maim me, I will tell her ‘Chihuahua’. And if I die trying, bring anemones to my grave. They’re my favourite flowers.”

Louis chuckles. “Like the one you have almost faded on your neck?”

Zayn freezes. He touches his neck, knowing that the flower is basically not there anymore, but the mere fact that Louis noticed, what if Harry noticed too, what if…

“Chill out,” Louis sighs. “He didn’t notice. He’s too preoccupied with all the rest to notice fucking flower bruises. I won’t tell him.”

Zayn doesn’t even try to play dumb, and he just nods. “Okay. Thanks. It’s, like, it’s already complicated enough. It’ll have to wait.”

Louis nods. “I agree. Zayn? Are you just here ‘cause it’s your job? ‘Cause Anne, Robin and Gemma are paying you?”

Zayn chuckles bitterly. “I have half a mind to just tell them I wanna quit the case, to be honest,” he says before he can stop the words from coming out.

Louis doesn’t reply for a moment. He stares at Zayn, assessing him, like he wants to vivisect everything he just said and weight it. Then, he sighs. “Don’t. They need the little bit of hope you’re providing them, even just by keeping looking and not telling them that Harry’s probably dead. That’s why they’re still paying you even if you’re not making any ‘progress’. I know them, been knowing them since we were in kindergarten,” he says slowly. “So don’t quit the case. Keep them hopeful, even if you can’t tell them you actually found Harry now. Maybe the day we can go back is closer than we think. Maybe you can give _us_ a little bit of hope as well.”

“Hope!” Dilly exclaims, nodding like she’s participating in their conversation while she eats by herself like she’s much older than just two.

Zayn chuckles at her, and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t even realize it, but his hand goes to her head, gently stroking the crazy short curls framing her small face. “Yeah, love,” he tells her, “hope.”

Zayn feels Louis keeping staring at him from the opposite end of the table, but he doesn’t say anything, because right that moment he hears the quiet stomping of Harry’s lazy swagger, the way he walks when he isn’t fighting and isn’t planning on not being noticed. “All good?” Harry asks, his voice kinda rough.

Zayn turns. He’s standing there dressed in sweats and a white t-shirt, his hair wet and drizzling water on his shoulders, making the t-shirt kinda see-through while he dabs at it with a towel.

Zayn gulps down, trying to get his eyes off of Harry’s fucking chest stretching the thin material of the tee. “Yeah. All good.”

“Peachy,” Louis replies with a grin.

Dilly giggles. “Peach!”

Harry snorts. “Okay. I’ll go downstairs, gotta train a little and talk to Grant in a while. You can shower and then join me by the ring, yeah?” he tells Zayn, like it’s nothing, like it’s the most normal thing in the world that Zayn’s there having breakfast with his kid and his fellow fugitive, showering in his place, and watching him train.

For the third time in twelve hours, Zayn nods, and agrees to stay.

+

When Zayn gets to the main floor of _The Creek_ , where the fights are held, he frowns a bit as he takes a look around. He immediately spots Harry, hitting a punching bag with gloves—and thank God for the gloves, Zayn’s knuckles have never been sorer than the last few days—and his white tee already completely soaked with sweat and completely see-through, which gives Zayn a bit of a heart attack and a bit of a boner.

But he also spots other people all around, doing the same with other punching bags. There’s at least five of them, and there are a couple more people going around, helping them position their arms better, like they’re teaching them. Zayn sees Sophia too, in a corner with a group of other girls and some men too, clearly taking a class in self-defence with the help of three coaches.

_What the fuck?_ , Zayn thinks, swiftly walking over to Harry before anyone else notices him and stops him. He doesn’t even know why he’s scared of being stopped.

Greg is there as well, talking to a bulky, tall man with a ponytail of pitch black hair. Greg sees Zayn, smiles at him, but doesn’t stop him and doesn’t say anything as Zayn walks by them.

Harry’s breath is heavy, but even, when Zayn gets close enough to him to hear it. He’s the only person there whom the coaches never get close to.

“Hi,” Harry says, not turning to look at Zayn, but clearly feeling him approach.

Zayn stops next to him, at a safe distance from the punching bag, but where he knows Harry can actually see him. “Hi. What, um, what’s going on here?”

Harry chuckles, hitting the punching bag harder. “’S a gym in the morning. A legal one, even. People come here to learn boxing. And Jason, Kyle and Mark over there have self-defence classes.”

“Oh,” Zayn comments, a bit dumbly. “That’s… cool?”

Harry laughs, punching the bag three more times and then stopping. The bag sways powerfully, and he grabs at it to stop it before it can hit Zayn in the face. Zayn compliments himself when he doesn’t flinch that much. “It is,” Harry confirms. “Wanna learn too?”

Zayn snorts. “The only punches I threw in my life were in high school when bullies shoved me into lockers and made racist comments,” he replies.

It’s careless, but Harry’s gaze hardens at his words nonetheless, removing his boxing gloves. “You got hit a lot back then?”

Zayn shrugs. “A bit. Don’t glare like that, kitty. I won’t give you their names so you can go all _John Wick_ on them and hunt them down one by one,” he answers with a grin.

Harry glares for one more moment, and then laughs. “Gotta defend my pretty lil’ thing.”

“I’m not a thing,” Zayn rolls his eyes. “And I can defend myself. Most of the time. By hurting people’s feelings with words and then running away before the punches reach my person.”

Harry laughs again. “I’m sure your pretty lil’ claws are very dangerous,” he agrees solemnly. “Come here,” he then adds, handing Zayn his gloves.

Zayn shakes his head with all his strength. “Nah, really, I don’t…”

“Come here,” Harry repeats more sternly. The urging tone and the rasp of his voice make Zayn’s traitorous dick twitch, and he curses a bit under his breath, sighing and then grabbing the gloves from Harry. He slides them on, grimacing when he feels how sweaty they are on the inside, and straps them to his wrists.

Harry chuckles, and then settles right behind Zayn, grabbing his arms and raising them in a defensive position. Zayn feels Harry’s whole front plastered to his back, the smell of sweat and _Harry_ hitting his nostrils, and he immediately starts sweating and breathing harder for reasons that have nothing to do with fighting. “This is very cliché and I feel objectified,” Zayn declares, to break the moment, and because he actually believes so.

Harry chuckles, right against Zayn’s neck, which makes him shiver. “Getting a boxing lesson by the one and only Cheshire Cat,” he murmurs to Zayn’s ear. “Should be thanking me, really.”

It’s even _more_ cliché, when Zayn replies. “How would I thank you, kitty?”

Harry hums. “By letting me fuck you against the wall as soon as my training’s done,” he answers bluntly.

Zayn shivers. “Maybe I’m not in the mood anymore.”

“I think we both are,” Harry answers surely, and the next moment he’s pressing himself more to Zayn’s back, and Zayn feels his semi against the small of his spine, a dick half-hard to rival the one Zayn has in his own skinnies.

“You’re so fucking filthy, I swear,” Zayn comments, without any heat.

“That’s good. Means more _filthy_ for both of us later.”

“Are you gonna actually teach me something or are you just gonna keep harassing me?”

“Can’t I do both?” Harry asks in an innocent tone.

Zayn rolls his eyes, and Harry chuckles. “Okay, okay. Punch the bag. Let me see how you would do it.”

Zayn does. He brings his arm backwards a little to charge the punch more, almost elbowing Harry in the face because it’s clearly a wrong move and he wasn’t expecting it, and then he chuckles, punching the bag in front of him with all his strength. The bag only rattles slightly, and Zayn’s knuckles protest.

Harry snorts. “That was… very cute,” he says vaguely. He takes time to raise Zayn’s arm again, showing him how to stretch it properly, how to actually charge for a decent blow, how to keep his upper arm closer to his body while he does it so that his side is not completely exposed while he hits.

After a while, Zayn realizes he’s punching the bag on his own, with Harry standing to his side rather than behind him. And he also realizes he’s having _fun_.

“It’s a good feeling, innit?” Harry chuckles, probably understanding Zayn’s emotions on his face.

Zayn laughs, hitting the bag again. “Kinda?” he says. “Like, I can see the appeal. I’d still prefer you to only punch a bag instead of _being_ a punching bag.”

Harry’s eyes flash with mirth. “Oh, pretty lil’ thing, believe me, the others are _my_ punching bags. The only one who can really say I’m her punching bag is Dilly. She’s got quite the mean right blow, just like her Daddy.”

Zayn chuckles again, but it doesn’t escape his attention, the way Harry carelessly talks about Dilly with all those people around. He wonders if Harry really feels safe here, if all the rest of the people working with him know about Dilly and are keeping the secret for him, if he really trusts _The Creek_ more than he can trust his own family, the family he loves.

Harry must understand what Zayn’s thinking, because he clears his throat. “The people here know about her. Kinda hard to hide a toddler in a place like this, especially one with the lungs my daughter has,” he says, almost reluctantly. “But it’s fine. It’s not like we’re _really_ hiding. We’re safe until we’re here. Nobody can touch us.”

Zayn stops hitting the bag. “Who wants to touch you, Harry?” he asks before he can think twice.

Harry’s gaze closes off a little, and then he smirks, but it’s fake. “You, hopefully,” he replies, going for a joke that feels wrong and trite when his eyes look more scared than they were a moment earlier.

Zayn sighs and scoffs, deciding to let it go for now. “Keep dreaming then. You’re all sweaty again. I told you what I think about _manly_ sweating.”

Harry grins, more honestly, and takes a step closer to Zayn. “Maybe you should just help me wash it off, and then we can talk about that fuck against the wall. Or, just do it. Skip the talking.”

Zayn snorts. It’s just too fucking cocky, even for the Cheshire Cat, and there’s a bit of a raging flare in his stomach at the thought of all the reflected sex bruises he got on his body because of Harry, so he’s also wondering about just how many people caved in and gave Harry what he’s now asking of Zayn. He knows it’s stupid to be worrying about being just the umpteenth hook-up when he knows Harry has a kind heart, deep down, and many problems, but Zayn can’t seem to fucking help it the more he stares in his eyes, the more his dimples show, the more he wants to just cave in like a hundred people did before him.

So, “I bet you say that to everyone” is all that leaves his lips, knowing it’ll get Harry mad.

It does. Harry’s eyes flash, and he takes yet another step closer. “No, I don’t. I’ve hooked up with many people. But none of them got my rose ring on their finger, while you’ve been having that for almost two days. And none of them got to punch a bag with me. So, no, I don’t say that to everyone,” he replies, quite coldly.

Zayn feels immediately guilty. “It’s just that…”

“Bringing your hook-ups on the ring now, Cat?” someone interrupts Zayn when he didn’t even know what he wanted to say in the first place. _It’s just that I’m kinda jealous? It’s just that I kinda wanna fuck you but also see you again? It’s just that I kinda wanna keep the fucking ring?_

The man who spoke is the one who was talking to Greg before, the bulky, tall one with the black hair in a ponytail. Greg is also there, a bit further away, looking at them with a worried expression that Zayn thinks doesn’t sit well with his normally cheerful features. _Normally? I’ve known both of them for less than three days. Get a fucking grip, Zayn._

Harry steps forward, and Zayn doesn’t miss the way he’s standing a bit too close, and a bit in front of him, like he wants to put himself between the man and Zayn without being too obvious. “Hey, Grant,” Harry just says, his tone not cold, but not happy either. “Just throwing a couple punches. He’s kinda scrawny. Gotta make sure he can defend himself.”

Grant laughs, way more happily than the fake smirk Harry has on his face. “You do you, Cat, you know. Fuck three people at the same time on the ring in front of the audience, see if I care. As long as the money’s good.”

Harry laughs. It’s fake, again. “That might be too much of a show-off even for the Cheshire Cat.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with showing off last night when you snogged your bloke right by the ring, though,” Grant says with a snicker. “Calling dibs?”

Zayn feels an ugly shiver run up his spine, and he really feels like an object, in that moment, a _pretty thing_ , and he knows Harry doesn’t mean it that way when he calls him that, but he thinks that maybe all the people around there would mean it like that indeed. He’s about to make a snarky remark about being objectified, but before he can speak, he sees Greg shake his head at him from behind Grant, joining his hands with a pleading expression clearly meaning _Please please please don’t fucking say anything_. So Zayn shuts up.

“I don’t need to call any _dibs_ , everybody already knows I get what I want,” Harry replies, stressing the substantive with a tone Zayn finds kinda ugly. Zayn, instead, just feels disgusted at the careless admission, because in that moment, he really wonders if Harry was all affectionate to him the night before because he needed to _call dibs_ on him, put his mark on him, atop of the hundreds of flower-shaped marks he unknowingly gave Zayn in the last two years. _Calling dibs, and not because he’s_ smitten _with me_.

Grant hums, unimpressed. “Anyway,” he waves a hand. “I just wanted to remind you that tomorrow night you lose, yeah?”

Harry nods, while Zayn’s stomach twists. Harry had said on the phone with Liam that his next match would be the day after tomorrow, but now he’s fighting _again_ tomorrow, and what about the losing thing? _He told Liam about his next ‘winning’ fight_ , he remembers.

“Yeah, I remember. Long live the fucking jungle,” Harry replies, sarcastically. Zayn doesn’t understand what he means.

Grant chuckles. “Gotta keep the relationship afloat, Harry. It’s good for business, and it’s good for the fact that you wanna keep being under my protective wing. You know that, right?”

Harry doesn’t reply. He seems to remember only then that Zayn’s listening, and Zayn feels absurdly betrayed when Harry clearly looks at Greg, and Greg nods, clapping his hands and then going straight for Zayn, putting a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, lad, let them have their alone time,” he says.

“What the f…” Zayn starts, but Greg’s hand on his shoulder tightens.

Harry doesn’t even look at Zayn, and Zayn takes a look at his tense shoulders before grunting and following Greg to another corner of the room, next to the bar. “Let me go,” Zayn says harshly, shrugging Greg’s hand away from him when they’re too far for him to listen to Harry and Grant.

Greg’s face falls. “Sorry, sorry.”

“What’s it mean? The jungle? Harry losing?” Zayn asks, lowering his voice, because he knows he can be scrawny and Greg can be way taller than him, but he also knows how to read people, and Greg is kind, Greg quit _The Creek_ because he wants to give it a try with his soulmate, while Zayn can make people crumble with his eyes and words.

Greg looks at Grant and Harry, and then sighs, facing Zayn again as they both sit on the empty bar’s stools. “It’s a rival fight club. _The Jungle_. They’re, like, the enemy. We have a fight with them every few weeks. Harry’s always the one fighting them, he’s our champion. But he can’t always win. Sometimes he has to lose on purpose so that the crowd won't become too sure of him and stop betting, and so that those people’s ego will be pumped and they won’t… retaliate.”

Zayn files the info in his head. “Retaliate? How?”

Greg shakes his head. “Please don’t ask me anything more. You’re fucking scary with these eyes, I get why Harry says you’ve got claws as well. I can’t say. It’s Grant and Harry’s business.”

Zayn takes a breath, although it sounds more like he’s just flaring his nostrils. He sighs, grunting a curse that makes Greg gape and then laugh.

Zayn can’t do much if Harry’s busy talking to his boss and Greg’s not willing to speak more about it, so he tries to relax and even smiles at the redhead lad. “So you quit?” he asks.

Greg smiles and nods. “Yeah. Like, I was thinking about quitting for a while now. I’ve been doing this for two years. It’s always something, the rush, the adrenaline, whatever. But it’s also… dangerous. It’s not always a couple amicable punches with a mate. And I really wanna give this a try, this thing I have going on with my new bird. So I quit. I came to tell Grant today, and I wanted to tell Harry we should celebrate tonight. Harry’s glad, been trying to convince me to quit for months.”

Zayn scoffs. “Well, he can’t be the one to talk, since he won’t quit himself.”

Greg blinks and gapes a little. “But… but he can’t. Dilly’s…”

“Here I am,” Harry announces, showing up beside them with a foul expression in his eyes even if his mouth is smiling. Zayn curses a bit, mentally, at the thought Greg was almost about to spill something without realizing, but Harry got there in the completely _wrong_ moment.

“Hey,” Zayn greets him, feeling his own foul expression surface.

When he looks at Harry, he’s instantly reminded of all the comments on calling dibs, bringing hook-ups around the place, and about all the things Harry won’t tell him even if he says he trusts him.

Harry frowns. “Zayn, are you…”

“I think I’ll go now,” Zayn interrupts him, suddenly feeling too warm and claustrophobic. “Wouldn’t want to stick around too much and make you have to call dibs again.”

Greg sighs heavily and slips out of the seat and away from them without a word, and Harry instantly takes his seat, his big hand wrapping around Zayn’s knee, to keep him there. “It’s Grant,” Harry says coldly. “He already knows all of my weaknesses. Let me keep one for myself.”

“So that’s what I am? A weakness? Like last night, when Dermot used me to make you lower your guard?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, Zayn, you’re blowing this way out of proportion, I swear, it’s just, I don’t even fucking know what we’re doing, to be honest. Do you?”

Zayn feels himself deflate, because Harry, deep down, is right. “No,” he replies honestly. “I don’t know what we’re doing. But I know what I _don’t_ wanna do. And I don’t wanna be a _thing_.”

Harry’s pained expression momentarily makes Zayn loose his metaphorical footing, because Harry’s shoulders slouch, and he closes his eyes, rubbing at them with his fingers. “I know, Zayn. And, you’re _not_ a thing. This… this place, it works in a certain way, okay? And I don’t work like that, but I have to adapt, because if Grant is pissed at me, it means that I risk being thrown out of that place upstairs, and once I can’t be here anymore, once _my child_ can’t be here anymore, we’re food for the vultures of the fucking _Jungle_.”

Zayn blinks. “ _The Jungle_ are the people you’re scared of? The people you agreed to lose a match against, tomorrow?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. It’s them. I don’t particularly wanna talk about it here. Or ever. But especially here,” he says, looking around a bit.

Zayn understands that whatever is going on must be taking its toll on Harry, because he can see the scared expression in his eyes again, the one he had the night before when he thought he would never be able to get meds for his kid, and Zayn’s own rage has vanished, so he doesn’t feel like pressuring Harry anymore for now. “Okay.”

Harry sighs, his hand still warm on Zayn’s knee, squeezing more. “I’m sorry. About the crass objectifying.”

“Don’t be. It’s okay. It’s just, it’s a joke when I say you objectify me. But it doesn’t always feel like a joke when there’s other people around.”

Harry grins, weakly, but honestly. “Does it mean I can keep calling you my pretty lil’ thing?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “And I’ll keep telling you that I’m not a thing. I’ll even teach your daughter to say it.”

Harry snorts. “It’d be quite a show, I won’t lie,” he answers, and then his face falls again as he looks at the ground. “Might make her laugh more than I can make her, keeping her fucking caged up there.”

Zayn remembers what Louis has said that morning, about Dilly being restless because they never go out. “Haz? If I propose you something, do you promise not to throw a strop or punch me in the face or both?”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “It depends.”

Zayn takes a breath. “Greg said he wants to celebrate him quitting this place, tonight. Why don’t… why don’t we do it at my place? It’ll be safe. And Dilly can go out of the house this way. Without being in any danger.”

Harry shakes his head, his eyes wide in his face as he breathes through his nose. “No, Zayn, it’s dangerous, what if my family decides to pay you a fucking visit and they find us there, what if someone…”

Zayn grabs him by the shoulders. “Harry, listen. Your family doesn’t know where I live. They call me when they wanna speak to me, and not even that often these days. They can’t show up at my place. It’s safe, okay? I live on the other side of town from them, too. Please? We’ll be careful while we go there from here. Nobody’s gonna see you, or Louis, or Dilly. My car even has tinted windows,” he tells Harry, going for a smirk.

Harry blinks, takes a couple breaths, and then releases them. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Zayn arches his eyebrow. “I’m doing it for Greg, of course,” he replies faking a nonchalant tone. “He never called dibs on me.”

Harry stays motionless and speechless for a moment, and then laughs. He grabs Zayn by the collar of his shirt, and knocks their lips together, messily, with their teeth clacking, and then plunges his tongue into Zayn’s mouth anyway. It’s the worst fucking kiss Zayn’s ever had, but he takes it and thinks he wants another, and another, and another. “Okay,” Harry murmurs at last. “Okay, pretty lil’ thing.”

Zayn grins. “I’m not a thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	6. Alas, poor Yorick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is that Zayn knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s falling for Harry, worrying for him, and he wants to stay with him and make him stay and make him trust him, because that’s what feels right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and the original characters.

Needless to say, Zayn and Harry don’t end up having wild wall-sex at _The Creek_ like Harry was suggesting. Instead, Zayn goes home to clean the house a little bit for the impromptu party he planned for those people he barely knows, and he makes sure there’s nothing too dangerous for a two-year-old around.

Liam helps him, and while they clean, Zayn tells him everything. He tells him about Harry, Louis and Dilly, and he also tells him about Harry being his soulmate. Liam is kinda shocked, but Zayn also knows Liam understands him better than he understands himself, sometimes, and today is no exception. So, Liam doesn’t make any comments on the soulmate business, and he promises Zayn to shut up about Harry Styles having a daughter, because he knows Zayn knows what he’s doing.

Zayn kinda wishes he could be as confident in himself as Liam is.

They buy groceries, snacks and sweets, and Liam even helps Zayn bake a cake for Greg, which turns out to be very wobbly and not so pretty, but good. They even write _Congrats on not being a punching bag anymore_ on it, which Zayn knows will make Greg piss himself laughing, because he’s already found out it’s very easy to make Greg laugh.

Liam thinks he’s being very casual and nonchalant when he asks who’s gonna come, and Zayn grins a little to himself, name-dropping Sophia in their small list of guests. Liam blushes, and Zayn shakes his head with a chuckle when Liam isn’t looking.

Liam stays at Zayn’s place while Zayn goes back to _The Creek_ to pick up Harry, Louis and Dilly. On his way there, he passes by a toy store, and he remembers just how sad Harry’s house looks, with no toys for Dilly lying around, and absolutely no toys in her ‘room’ either. So he quickly gets inside the store and buys a plush toy shaped as _Alice in Wonderland_ ’s Cheshire Cat—it only seems fitting—after asking the girls working there if it’s suited for two-year-olds, just to be sure, because he knows fuck all about that.

The store is attached to a bookstore, and just as Zayn’s crossing it to get out again, his eyes fall on a small, pocket edition of _Hamlet_. He also remembers Harry talking about knowing it by heart, and with a sad little pang in his stomach, he thinks about Harry’s house again. There are no toys there, and certainly no books. So Zayn buys that as well, because he’s a fucking sap, and because he’s probably stupid and/or losing his mind over Harry Styles, and there’s no point denying it.

When he’s done with his purchases, he gets to _The Creek_ , stops the car in the shady parking lot, which looks a bit less shady in the daylight, and honks in a sequence of four he agreed upon with Harry before leaving that morning, because _everything_ has a fucking code around here.

Right on cue, he sees Louis and Harry get out of a back entrance in the building. Harry is holding Dilly in his arms, squeezing her tight to his chest and walking behind Louis with his head ducked down, like someone’s chasing him. It makes Zayn’s heart twist a little.

Louis gets into the backseat of Zayn’s car, while Harry slides in the passenger seat, his breath a bit ragged like he ran a mile instead of just having taken a couple steps from the door to the vehicle, and he immediately closes the car door, locking it and still keeping a tight hold on his child.

Zayn looks at him. “Breathe. Tinted windows. Taking your daughter out. All good things,” he just tells Harry.

Harry sniffles and nods before looking back at Zayn. He looks like a scared animal, but the more they look at each other and Harry sees Zayn being super chill, the more he relaxes as well.

Dilly giggles. “Out!” she screams, punching Harry in the face. She looks so much better already after her first antibiotic pill, and Zayn mentally thanks Doniya all over again.

Harry, despite the anxiety he’s probably feeling right now, snorts a laugh and pretends that Dilly actually hurt him. Dilly giggles harder, and Zayn laughs as well. So does Louis, who shifts in the backseat like he’s also kinda jittery about going out. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror tells Zayn that he’s not _nervous_ like Harry, though. He looks… _excited_ , and Zayn sadly wonders just how big of a toll this forced exile is taking on the two men as well as the toddler.

Before they leave, Zayn reaches into the bag on the backseat, where he stuffed the plush toy and the book. He only takes out the former, and he smiles at Dilly, handing it to her. “A present for you, love,” he tells her.

Dilly’s green eyes widen to the size of saucers, so fucking similar to her father’s that it gives Zayn a bit of a heartache, and her small hands grab the Cheshire Cat toy, immediately hugging it to her chest. “Kitty!” she shouts, petting it.

Harry hums, but Zayn doesn’t think he has the nerve of looking at him in the face right now, because he just wanted to do something nice for Dilly, but what if he stepped overboard, what if Harry doesn’t appreciate people getting so close to his daughter as to buying her gifts, what if…

“What do you say, my pretty lil’ thing?” Harry only asks Dilly, the hint of a smile in his tone.

Dilly looks at Zayn and grins widely. “Thank you!” she giggles, and the ‘Th’ sounds more like an ‘F’, but Zayn isn’t picky, not when he realizes he’s made a two-year-old extremely happy.

Zayn chuckles and ruffles her hair. “You’re welcome, doll,” he says, and only then does he raise his eyes and meet Harry’s.

Harry’s smiling. It’s a bright, big smile, with both his dimples showing as he stares at Zayn like he did more than just buy a fucking stuffed animal for the kid. “Thank you,” Harry repeats.

Zayn smiles. “’S not for you, it’s for Dilly. Don’t steal it.”

“It’s a Cheshire Cat though. I have a claim on it, I think,” Harry comments.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Calling dibs on a stuffed animal too, now,” he mutters jokingly.

Harry laughs, and tries to kick Zayn in the ankle, failing because his long legs are a bit crammed in the small space of the passenger seat. “Shut up, Zayn.”

Dilly hums, still petting the stuffed Cat and hugging it. “Nice to Zayn, Daddy,” she orders.

Zayn shows Harry his tongue as he drives off. “Yeah, Daddy, be nice to Zayn,” he agrees.

“Absolutely riveting,” Louis deadpans. “Now there’s even a Daddy kink involved.”

Zayn’s face bursts into flames at Louis’s comment, because that’s so _not_ what he meant, and Harry gives out something that sounds like a squeal. Louis laughs.

“Shut up, Lou,” Harry mutters.

By the time they reach Zayn’s place, Dilly has already had a full conversation with the stuffed Cheshire Cat, which only Harry has understood, but Zayn thinks he heard his own name come from Dilly’s lips once or twice, and butterflies have annoyingly swarmed his stomach every time.

Greg arrives with Sophia right when Zayn’s opening his house door, and he wastes no time ushering everybody inside, to avoid making Harry stay in the open too long. He looks infinitely more relaxed than when he got out of _The Creek_ , and Zayn doesn’t wanna ruin it.

When they’re all safely inside Zayn’s place, Harry puts Dilly on the floor, and Zayn’s stomach twists painfully as the kid, the father and the non-biological uncle look around the apartment with their mouths slightly agape, like they’ve never fucking seen a _real house_ before. Zayn’s place is not even that big, or that fancy, but Zayn reckons that living in such tight, old quarters at _The Creek_ for a month or so has made them all forget how a _home_ feels like, and Zayn’s house is quite homey, courtesy of all the ‘homey things’ his family and friends have brought him in the course of the five years he’s spent in this place.

Liam looks very proud of his set-up when they join him on the backyard. The weather’s nice, and Zayn’s backyard is completely inaccessible from the street, with trees all around so they’re covered. Zayn never thought much about _cover_ in his place, but he does now that Harry’s there, and Harry must realize too, because he nods and he lets Dilly run barefoot in the grass, the Cheshire Cat always safely held to her chest. “She’ll make a mess of her dress,” Harry sighs, looking at Dilly roll in the grass with her little pink dress on.

Zayn chuckles. “’S fine. We’ll wash it.”

“ _I_ will make a mess of my clothes, too, probably. This grass looks perfect to roll in.”

Louis snorts. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh?”

Liam has set two plastic tables and chairs in the grass, and there’s snacks and drinks all around. He clears his throat again, trying and failing to be discreet in his ogling of Sophia, but there’s really no point in that, because Sophia is doing just the same, clearing her throat every fucking ten seconds and tucking her hair behind her ear repeatedly while she eyes Liam every time she thinks he’s not looking.

Greg rolls his eyes as they all sit, casually making sure Sophia ends up sitting next to Liam.

Harry rolls his eyes too. “Feels like a teen drama, really,” he whispers lowly into Zayn’s ear.

Zayn snorts. “We were dry humping less than twelve hours ago, Harry. Shouldn’t be the ones to talk about acting like teens.”

Harry only smirks, but Zayn’s comment doesn’t go unnoticed, and Greg has a fit of laughter while he splutters in his beer and makes a mess of his shirt.

Sophia scoffs, scooting away from Greg and his spilling of beer, which makes her end up closer to Liam, only casually of course. “Jesus Christ, always spilling whatever he has in his glass,” she grunts. “The little miss over there?” she points at Dilly playing in the grass. “She’s _two_ and she makes less messes than all these lads.”

Liam chuckles. “Messy is good once in a while, though.”

Zayn’s eyes almost bulge out of his skull at Liam’s comment, but Sophia seems unperturbed as she just smirks at Liam and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Depends on what kind of _messy_ we’re talking about,” she replies.

“All this eye-fucking will give me a boner,” Harry whispers in Zayn’s ear.

Zayn shivers, but then manages to roll his eyes. “ _Everything_ gives you a boner, Harry. You’re a sex-crazed caveman. I thought you knew.”

“Heeey,” Harry drawls.

Zayn laughs. He’s never seen Harry being so careless, smiling for so long, and he’s certainly never seen Harry just slumping in a chair on a backyard with a beer in his hand as he keeps an eye on his daughter, but just lazily, because deep down he _knows_ she’s safe there. It warms Zayn’s heart a little bit.

They chat amiably for a long time, ordering pizza when they get hungry for something more than just snacks, and when they bring the cake out, Greg literally bends over to laugh, because Zayn was right, and it’s very easy to make Greg laugh. They eat the cake, Dilly sitting on Harry’s lap as she eats like a proper little lady while her father tries to eat around her small body and makes the cake fall twice on the front of his t-shirt. “Daddy messy,” Dilly comments with a sigh, and Zayn almost has a lung failure for how hard he laughs at that.

“ _Et tu_ , spawn of my loins?” Harry declares.

Zayn kicks him in the leg. “Don’t say ‘loins’ in front of your kid, Harry,” he hisses.

They bicker back and forth for a moment, and when they’re done and end up just staring at each other grinning like two idiots, Zayn feels Liam’s gaze tear a hole in his head. He thinks he’ll find judgement there, not the bad kind, but the kind that he knows he deserves for whatever the fuck it is he’s doing with Harry. Instead, Liam is just smiling, a small smile just meant for Zayn, like he wants to tell Zayn _I know you fucking lost your mind, and I’m kinda scared for you, but you’ll be fine_. Zayn decides that he wants to believe Liam, that night.

When night has fallen and the cake has been eaten, Harry finally gives up and starts rolling in the grass with his daughter, laughing so hard he doesn’t even _sound_ like himself, and Zayn wonders if instead that’s _exactly_ how Harry used to sound when he laughed, before _The Creek_ and whatever else swallowed him whole.

Greg and Sophia go away, Sophia blatantly giving Liam her number when Liam seems to be too shy to ask for it. Then, Liam and Louis get engrossed in a conversation about football, and Louis seems so fucking excited to be able to talk about whatever player they’re talking about that Zayn chuckles and leaves them be, starting to gather the dirty dishes and swatting their hands away when they try to help him. Harry’s still rolling in the grass with Dilly, his loose hair full of grass threads, and his white tee stained all over. Zayn snorts and shakes his head, bringing the dishes inside.

As he starts washing the dishes, his eyes fall on Harry’s rose ring on his finger, and all the thoughts of _what the fuck am I doing_ flood Zayn’s head yet again. He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his own brain at bay, trying to convince himself that he’s not falling hard for Harry, that he didn’t start falling for him before meeting him, even. There’s no point in that, because Zayn knows himself, and he knows where this is all heading, and he can keep pretending with himself that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but the truth is very simple.

The truth is that he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s falling for Harry, worrying for him, and he wants to stay with him and make him stay and make him trust him, because that’s what feels right.

The realization isn’t a grand affair. Zayn doesn’t gasp or clutch dramatically at his chest, the dish doesn’t slip from his faltering hands. It’s just a quiet chuckle, because _of course_ he’s gone and fallen for someone in three days, someone who was only supposed to be a missing person case.

Zayn’s always been quick to fall for people. It only makes sense that he’s been even quicker to fall for someone like Harry.

“Can I help?”

Harry’s voice startles Zayn, because it’s close to his ear, so close, and Zayn didn’t even hear him approaching. Harry might saunter and walk around with his lazy swagger, but when he wants to go unnoticed, there’s no way you’ll bloody notice him.

Harry chuckles. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Of course you did. You did your whole… _feline stealth_ thing,” he retorts, waving his hand in a circle.

Harry snorts. “Feline stealth?”

“Yep,” Zayn assures, flinging a dishrag at Harry, “now dry these dishes, ain’t gonna dry themselves.”

“I am pretty sure they will dry themselves if you leave them here for a while,” Harry comments cheerfully, but he moves to start drying the dishes all the same. “Zayn?”

Zayn hums, not raising his eyes from the sink.

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly. “For, like, for having us. For convincing me to take Dilly out. I haven’t seen her laugh so much in ages. And you were right. It’s safe here.”

Zayn finally tilts his head sideways to look at Harry, and smiles. “She had fun, didn’t she?”

Harry nods. “She played so much she’s dead tired now and asleep in Liam’s lap. Don’t ask me how it happened. But Liam’s a good lad, too.”

“Too? Who else is a good lad?” Zayn grins.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m here trying to thank you and be nice and you’re taking the piss?”

Zayn laughs, but then he sobers up immediately, and looks at Harry in the eyes again. “Did you have fun? I didn’t _only_ plan this whole thing for Greg and Dilly alone.”

Harry smiles and nods. “Yeah. As my poor t-shirt will confirm,” he chuckles, staring down at the mess of grass stains and cake on his top.

Zayn rinses the last dish and places it on the dishrack, closing the tap and turning to completely face Harry. There’s a stain of cream from the cake on his neck, and it looks too fucking inviting for Zayn to ignore it. “Yeah,” he whispers, “you’re a mess.”

Before Harry can move, Zayn leans forward and runs his tongue on the cream, licking it off Harry’s neck, and then sucks a little on the skin there, only gently, making sure he doesn’t leave any marks because he doesn’t want to deal with _that_ as well, tonight.

Harry groans with his mouth closed, shivering, and Zayn wraps his hands around his biceps, while he keeps licking stripes up and down Harry’s neck, slowly and thoroughly, enjoying the taste of cake and _Harry_.

“Fuck, pretty lil’ thing,” Harry grunts, his own hands going for Zayn’s hips. “I think you make more a mess of me than I can ever do myself.”

Zayn looks up, and kisses Harry. It’s not rushed and heated. It’s slow, with their tongues sliding gently against each other and their lips locking wetly, and Zayn thinks that every fucking kiss he’s shared with Harry has been the best he’s ever had, but that’s just because it’s Harry. “I’m not a thing,” Zayn murmurs on Harry’s mouth.

Harry chuckles. “Feisty,” he comments as usual, but it’s kinda weak, because then he thrusts his hips forward, and their erections catch, which makes them both lose their words for a moment as they sigh and keep snogging. Harry hauls Zayn closer by the hips, getting more friction for both of them, and it’s already the third time they’re grinding and doing nothing more, but Zayn wants to do more, more, more, and he’s done denying it.

“Do you wanna stay the night?” he asks Harry, rushing the words out. “You, Dilly and Louis. I have a guest room. The bed’s huge. Mine too. Stay.”

Harry blinks. He searches Zayn’s eyes for a long moment, and then goes for another kiss, a bit rougher, before he speaks again. “I can’t promise you that I’ll behave, if we share a bed again.”

Zayn grins. “Who told you I wanna share my bed with you? I was thinking Louis. You can share with Dilly.”

Harry’s right lower eyelid twitches when he grins. “Watch it, pretty lil’ thing,” he rumbles. “I don’t think it’s wise to mention your will to share your bed with other people in front of me.”

“Get your claws away, kitty,” Zayn chuckles. “I was joking. I wanna share with you. And I wanna let you deliver, as you promised.”

Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs visibly when he gulps down, and nods. One of his hands comes to cup the side of Zayn’s face when he kisses him again, this time harshly and filthily, his ragged breath ghosting over Zayn’s cheekbones when they come up for air. “You’re making me lose my fucking mind, Zayn.”

“Feeling’s mutual. So, do you wanna stay the night?”

Harry nods, their noses brushing. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Might use a real bed. My back’s a bit fucked up all the time.”

Zayn pouts. “Then no fucking against the wall, I reckon.”

Harry grins. “Oh, there’s no fucking chance I’ll pass on that. You can tend to my battered back afterwards.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “I wonder how you survived without me until now.”

Harry chuckles, kitten-licking Zayn’s upper lip. “I’m beginning to wonder that too.”

+

After Liam goes away, Zayn lets Louis and Harry shower first, and gives Harry one of his t-shirts as a huge pyjamas for Dilly, who doesn’t even wake up while Harry changes her clothes. Zayn gives more of his clothes to Louis, who changes into them and then slides into bed next to Dilly with a blissed-out expression, nestling himself under the duvet and among all the pillows with a sigh and half-lidded eyes, and then gives Harry and Zayn a thumbs-up and orders them to get the fuck out ‘cause he and his niece need to sleep.

Zayn leaves Harry in his own bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, and it’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done, leaving Harry half naked by his bed, and then he showers too.

When he gets back to his room, his own towel draped around his hips, he finds Harry giving him his back and standing by the shelves on top of his desk, holding the plastic replica of a dragon skull, the one from _Game of Thrones_ Liam gave Zayn for his birthday two years earlier.

“ _Alas, poor Yorick_ ,” Harry chuckles looking at the skull in his hand. “ _I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?_ ”

Zayn stays there on the threshold, motionless and in utter silence, listening to Harry reciting _Hamlet_ by heart. His naked back is bruised still, but only lightly. All the bruises have almost completely faded, and if there are gonna be new ones, new flowers on Zayn that Harry will notice at last, then so be it, because Zayn doesn’t think he has it in his heart to keep his hands off of Harry for even a minute longer.

Harry chuckles again to himself, but it’s bitter this time. “Look at me, still knowing _Hamlet_ by heart, but I’m still nothing more than the fucking Cheshire Cat.”

Zayn takes a deep breath, which Harry hears. He turns abruptly to face Zayn, immediately setting the dragon skull back on the shelf, and Zayn quickly closes the door, crossing the room as fast as he can to grab at Harry’s sides and shove him against the wall. “I feel so fucking sorry for whoever thinks you’re just the Cheshire Cat, Harry,” he murmurs, and then he kisses Harry.

Harry sags against the wall, his back sliding down a bit under Zayn’s pushing. Zayn opens his mouth for Harry, who grunts something unintelligible and shoves his tongue against Zayn’s on a sigh, wetly and hotly. There’s not much light in the room, only the one coming from Zayn’s bedside, but that only makes Harry’s eyes look brighter, like they have a light of their own, like a real cat’s.

Zayn’s hands grasp at the towels around their waists, pulling at them until they fall on the floor, and then they’re naked, more naked than they’ve ever been together. Harry takes a harsh breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring when Zayn does what he’s been wanting to do since he fucking laid eyes on Harry Styles.

He goes to the ground on his knees, and stares up at Harry. Harry’s legs are shaking as he slumps more against the wall, like he needs leverage. Zayn licks his lips, and Harry’s eyelids flutter. “Fucking hell, my pretty lil’ thing, you have _no idea_ how you look most of the time, do you?”

Zayn could reply with his usual “I’m not a thing”, but he doesn’t, this time. Instead, he opens his mouth, grabs a hold of Harry’s dick, and closes his lips around it without any warning.

Harry presses his lips in a thin line, muffling a louder groan. He’s hard and leaking in Zayn’s mouth, bigger than anything Zayn’s had in a long, long while, and Zayn keeps staring up at Harry as he starts to bob his head back and forth, smearing spit up and down his shaft for lubrication, and swirling his tongue around the head, in the slit, along the underside.

Harry’s legs tremble, and he slams a hand in the wall, crooking his fingers like he wants to grab more at it, while his other hand goes to Zayn’s head, through his now loose and damp hair. He doesn’t pull, though, just rests his ringed fingers through Zayn’s locks.

Zayn inches further up Harry’s dick, taking more of him in his mouth, until he feels him hit the back of his throat, and a string of expletive leaves Harry’s lips. “Zayn, Zayn, stop, fuck, fuck, you gotta stop, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” he whimpers, begs.

Zayn obeys, because he succeeded in wrecking Harry, making him a mess, showing him what a _pretty lil’ thing_ can do. He’s never felt more in control of what he’s doing with Harry, and the feeling makes him a bit dizzy, especially when he pulls off Harry’s cock and looks up again, only to find Harry breathing harshly with his head reclined against the wall, his neck elongated backwards, and his chest flushed all over for reasons that are _not_ bruises and fights.

Zayn stands up. He’s painfully hard as well, but he doesn’t touch himself, not yet. He just stands in Harry’s space, their lips close, and he smirks. “Here’s to pretty lil’ things,” he murmurs on Harry’s mouth.

Harry’s eyes fly open, and they flash with the predatory gaze Zayn has seen countless times directed at him, but this time, it doesn’t make him feel small and scrawny. It makes him feel like he felt when Harry taught him to punch a bag, and he realized that at some point he was punching it by himself, with Harry staring hungrily at him.

Harry grins, and switches their positions, shoving Zayn into the wall. It knocks the wind out of Zayn, but Harry’s there to catch it, swallowing his breath in another dirty kiss, his hands roaming on Zayn’s sides and down, down, down, until one of them wraps around his dick, tugging.

Zayn hisses at the contact with the warmth of Harry’s hand and the cold metal of his rings, but he doesn’t dream about asking Harry to take them off, he wants those too, and he wants the one currently sitting on his own index finger as well. “Lube and condom in the drawer,” Zayn grits out. “Take ‘em and come back here.”

Harry arches his eyebrow. “You have a bed.”

“I wasn’t joking when I said you owe me a hold-me-up-against-the-wall fuck. And you weren’t either. So now deliver, Harry Styles,” Zayn replies, more sternly than he actually feels, because Harry’s gaze is so intense it’s threatening to make Zayn melt into a pool at his feet.

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice, because he immediately lets Zayn go and almost tears the drawer off its hinges in his haste to look for the items. He then goes back to Zayn, turns him around so that his chest is plastered to the wall. Zayn’s heart flips, because what if Harry recognizes the faint, so faint, flowers on his back?

Harry just sighs and places his lips to Zayn’s ear. “So fucking pretty,” he says.

Zayn chuckles. “Gonna do something about it?”

“Oh, pretty lil’ thing, I’m gonna fucking _ruin_ you,” Harry assures.

Zayn finds out in that moment that Harry could mean it, and Zayn would ask him to never stop.

As it is, Zayn only hears Harry squirt lube in his hand and then toss the plastic bottle to the floor, and the next moment one of his fingers is prodding at Zayn’s entrance, circling his rim before swiftly sliding in.

Zayn groans, and takes it. He feels the ring on Harry’s knuckle, cold against his skin, and it makes him shiver, already wishing for more of that, more fingers, more _everything_.

“How long’s it been since someone fucked you?” Harry asks in a slow drawl, pumping his finger in and out, and then adding another, which has Zayn squirm and moan already.

Zayn takes a breath. “Not, ah, not that long. Three days ago.”

Harry’s fingers stop. “The night we met?”

Zayn nods. “Before I came to _The Creek_. I met this guy in a club. We shagged in the loo. Then he got a phone call, talked about betting on you in a fight. I heard your name and asked him to bring me to the match. He did. That’s how I found you.”

Harry hums, resuming his fingering, only at a quicker pace. “Was he any good?”

“No,” Zayn laughs. “It was quite shit. He held me against the wall though, which was nice.”

Harry hums again, although it’s more of a grunt. He adds a third finger, and immediately scissors them, crooking them upwards and brushing the pads against Zayn’s prostate, like he knows exactly where, exactly when, like he’s had his fingers in Zayn a thousand other times before.

Zayn whimpers, his cheek pressed against the wall, and he shamelessly rocks back his hips to meet Harry’s hand. Harry doesn’t let him, places his other hand, the one holding the condom, flat on Zayn’s back, keeping him against the wall. “Then I guess I won’t ask you to tell me his name so I can break his nose for having _this_ for himself and blowing it,” Harry whispers to Zayn’s ear.

Zayn chuckles breathlessly, his voice breaking on another whine when Harry does that thing with his fingers again. Now he understands what Sophia was talking about. She wasn’t fucking joking, was she.

“He didn’t even blow me,” Zayn retorts.

Harry chuckles too. “Twice as stupid, then.”

“I believe you haven’t blown me either, kitty,” Zayn says.

Harry licks a fat stripe behind Zayn’s ear. “Yet, pretty lil’ thing.”

“I’m not a thing.”

“What you are, Zayn,” Harry murmurs, crooking his fingers one last time before taking them out, “is fucking gorgeous. So much that I saw you that night, you know. I saw you right when you stepped into _The Creek_. I saw you while I fought Greg. And I kept fucking seeing you even when you went away. So now, look at me.”

Harry turns Zayn again so they’re facing each other. He’s already wearing the condom, and Zayn never lets his eyes fall from Harry’s as he props his hands on Harry’s shoulders for leverage, and then hooks a leg on his waist. Harry takes a deep, uneven breath, and places his hands under Zayn’s thighs to lift him up. When he does, Zayn slides the back of his knees in the crook of Harry’s elbows, and Harry’s hands end up flat against the wall on either side of Zayn.

The position is so filthy it makes Zayn even harder, and Harry grunts a curse. “Told you I could hold you up with no effort,” Harry says smugly.

Zayn nods, and he reaches down with one hand, lining Harry’s dick with his hole, because he thinks that if Harry moves his hands from the wall, he’s gonna drop Zayn and their incredible sexual performance will never happen.

Harry cants his hips, slowly, torturously slowly, his biceps straining when they flex, and he’s massive inside Zayn. It feels so fucking good already. Zayn throws his head back. “Fuck, Harry, fuck, yes, yes, yes,” he mutters, Harry breaching him more and more.

When he bottoms out, Zayn is almost bent in half, his back against the wall, his legs held up by Harry’s arms.

Harry doesn’t move, gives Zayn time to adjust to the intrusion and the slightly less than comfortable position, but Zayn’s feeling great, his head swimming, his core aching for more. He tilts his head down to look at Harry in the eyes, and grins. “Deliver, Harry Styles,” he just says.

Harry does.

He manages to slide out almost to the tip without slipping out completely, and then pounds back in, hard, Zayn’s body rattling against the wall. Zayn’s hands fly to Harry’s shoulders for more support, but there’s no need for that, because Harry’s holding him up with no effort as he promised, and Zayn kinda feels like he’s flying, conscious that he’s not touching the ground, and trusting Harry not to drop him.

Harry’s thrusts are slow but powerful at the beginning, but they quickly gain speed the more Zayn moans and groans and lets Harry know just how much he’s enjoying it, until they’re kissing harshly to avoid making too much noise, because they’re still not alone in the house.

Harry grunts after a particularly harsh thrust, his eyelids fluttering. “Fuck, Zayn, you’re so tight, so fucking tight, I haven’t even come yet and I already wanna fuck you again.”

Zayn is in no conditions to make a snarky remark or make fun of Harry for his eagerness. “Yeah, fuck me again, fuck me more, I can take more,” he just mutters, feeling a bit ashamed, but mostly not caring because he’s sure Harry can _see_ what he’s doing to Zayn anyway.

Harry nods, ramming inside Zayn harder and faster, and Zayn sees his muscles strain for the effort now, Harry’s skin glistening with sweat and his shoulders rippling as he moves.

Zayn needs to touch, to mark, to call his own dibs on Harry before someone else thinks they have a right to touch too. So he places his hands on Harry’s pecs, and does something reckless, something he’ll probably regret soon.

He runs his nails over Harry’s nipples, leaving four red lines on each of them, and he hisses like a cat, like Harry does.

Harry’s eyes shoot wide open when Zayn does that, and he surges forward to kiss Zayn, fucking harder into him, catching Zayn’s spot dead-on, repeatedly, and making Zayn’s sight go white with pleasure. “I’m gonna come, Zayn,” Harry warns.

Zayn nods frantically. “Me too. Come for me, do it,” he says, orders.

Harry doesn’t need more, and neither does Zayn. Harry grunts with his face in Zayn’s neck, and his hips stutter harshly once, twice, three times, and then he’s coming, spilling in the condom and pressing on Zayn’s prostate so hard that Zayn comes completely untouched.

Harry hasn’t touched Zayn’s dick, and yet Zayn comes hard, harder than he’s probably ever done, his body shuddering where it’s bent between Harry and the wall, ropes of seed making a mess of both their stomachs.

Harry watches, Zayn’s sure of it. Because when he comes down from it and manages to peel his eyes open, Harry’s still there holding him up, his eyes still wide, and his mouth agape like he just witnessed a small miracle.

They’re breathing so hard they both sound like they ran a marathon, but Harry’s gentle when he slowly slides his arms under Zayn’s thighs, holding him up higher so that he can pull out and bring Zayn to the bed. Harry places him there, slowly, and Zayn stretches his legs, stretches his whole body to recover from being bent in that position for so long.

He grins when he sees Harry watch him and his dick give a valiant twitch, like it would get hard again if refractory period wasn’t an actual issue.

Harry discards the condom into the trash bin under Zayn’s desk, and then unceremoniously uses one of their abandoned towels to wipe himself and then Zayn. “Gross,” Zayn comments, his voice coming out all fucked up.

Harry chuckles, and when he’s done, he chucks the towel away, sliding on the bed next to Zayn, both of them still retrieving their breath.

They stay there with their heads on the same pillow, looking at each other in silence for a while, before Harry runs his fingers over Zayn’s cheekbones, combing his hair backwards, and sighs. “There’s something else I have to deliver,” he says.

Zayn frowns. “What?”

“I told you that I’d tell you my story, last night. But I only told you the beginning,” Harry murmurs, his gaze a bit scared, but never faltering. “Not now, but like, soon. Will you… will you wanna hear the rest of my story?”

Zayn’s stomach drops. “Do you wanna tell me?”

Harry nods. “I wanna trust you, Zayn.”

“Wanting to trust me and actually doing it are two different things,” Zayn replies, the words feeling like mud in his mouth.

Harry chuckles and nods, and then he entwines their fingers together, delicately stroking his rose ring on Zayn’s index. “But I don’t give my rose ring to just anyone.”

Zayn could grin or scowl, and reply that he bets Harry says that to everyone. But deep down, he wants to believe Harry’s ring means something more than the promise of a shag in a locker room, so he nods. “Okay. Then I’ll listen, when you’ll feel ready to tell me.”

Harry nods, and they’re tangled in each other, their legs slotted together under the duvet and Harry’s head rested on Zayn’s shoulder. “Tomorrow night. After the match. I’ll tell you then,” Harry says slowly.

Zayn’s heart thumps a little unevenly when he’s reminded about the match Harry has to lose on purpose against the people from _The Jungle_. “Can I come to the match?” he asks Harry.

Harry hums. “It won’t be pretty to watch. I… I gotta lose on purpose. Sometimes I have to lose. Everybody loses, sometimes.”

Zayn gulps down. “I’ll tend to your wounds afterwards, I guess.”

Harry chuckles. “Cheers, pretty lil’ thing. It’ll feel less like losing if you do,” he slurs, and then he’s asleep before Zayn can reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	7. Venom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think Hamlet and Ophelia were soulmates?” Zayn asks Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and the original characters.

Zayn wakes up to the sound of an annoyed and pained groan coming from his right.

When he finally manages to peel his eyes open and turn, he finds Harry lying down on his back, awake, with an arm dramatically slung over his eyes. “My back’s all fucked up,” Harry declares.

Zayn snorts. “Good morning to you too. And, see, maybe fucking against the wall wasn’t a good idea after all.”

Harry removes his arm from his face and turns to face Zayn, with a wicked grin on his lips. “Still totally worth it, though.”

“Was it? Maybe. I think it was okay,” Zayn replies.

“Just… _okay_?” Harry asks, indignantly.

Zayn laughs. Harry looks a bit like a giant, disgruntled toddler, and it feels a bit crazy to Zayn, that they’re both there in his own bed, joking and bickering at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, but he won’t pretend that he doesn’t like it.

While he laughs, Harry does too, and his hands go for Zayn’s hips as he starts to pull Zayn closer, until he manages to almost pick Zayn up completely and make him sit in his lap. “I’ll show you _okay_ ,” Harry mutters, craning his neck forward to reach Zayn’s lips with his own. Zayn obliges to the clear request of a kiss, but then Harry winces a little, his back falling on the pillows again as he sighs.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Turn around,” he tells Harry.

Harry grins. “Was about to tell you the same thing.”

Zayn rolls his eyes again. “Shut up, you sex-crazed caveman. Turn around, I’ll put some cream on your shitty back for you. I have some of Doni’s magic cream in my drawer. And I’m told I give extremely good massages.”

Harry hums, wiggling his eyebrows, but then obeys and flips over, lying down on his stomach and almost sending Zayn flying even if he raises his hips to give Harry enough room to move.

Harry’s back doesn’t have any bruises anymore, but as soon as Zayn retrieves the cream and starts massaging it into Harry’s skin, he can feel the knots under his hands. “These feel more like nerves than the result of fights,” he tells Harry, quietly.

Harry hums again, resting his cheek on his own arms crossed on the pillows, and smiles lazily with his eyes closed. “I wonder why. I’m never nervous. You ever seen me nervous?”

Zayn chuckles. “Absolutely never,” he replies sarcastically.

“Heeey,” Harry pouts, and then he groans in pleasure after Zayn takes care of a particularly stiff spot under his shoulder blade.

Harry’s muscles ripple under Zayn’s hands. His back is so wide and smooth, despite the surely thousand times it’s been hurt and kicked at and punched at—Zayn knows, because he’s had a thousand flowers on his own as a consequence. Zayn would very much like to stay there giving Harry a massage for forever, but the more he runs his palms over the expanse of Harry’s toned skin, the more Harry groans, and the more it affects Zayn in a completely different manner.

They’re both in just their boxers, Zayn sitting on Harry’s legs just a bit further down than his arse, and he can see and feel himself start to grow. He tries to will his erection away, but fails miserably, until it’s too evident even for Harry, who probably feels it against the small of his back, because he cranes his neck to look at Zayn and grins. “Can’t even touch me without getting turned on, can you, pretty lil’ thing,” he comments cockily.

Zayn doesn’t want to admit that _that_ was an issue from the very first time they touched, for him, and he doesn’t even reply with his usual “I’m not a thing”, because he’s sure that his voice will be all fucked up from want and arousal, and he doesn’t want to give Harry that victory too.

“It’s okay,” Harry grins again. “Me too. ‘S honestly a miracle I didn’t pop a boner on the ring while fighting Greg, that first night we met. And we hadn’t even touched yet.”

Zayn doesn’t reply. He looks around, trying to focus his gaze on anything but those green eyes and those grinning lips, and that’s when he sees the bag with the _Hamlet_ book he bought the day before, which he still hasn’t given Harry.

“Wait, I have something for you,” he just says, and then jumps off of Harry, wiping the remainders of the cream off his hands using the sheets, since he has to change them anyway. Harry frowns and sits up, stretching his back with another of his absurdly sexy groans, and Zayn feels his eyes on him as he walks to his desk and picks up the small paper bag.

“I, uh, when I bought the plush toy for Dilly, I also bought this for you. It’s nothing, but I thought you’d like to have it,” he tells Harry, unexplainably feeling embarrassed, and hands him the bag.

Harry blinks, and takes it. He peeks inside, and Zayn thinks that both their breaths stop a little for no fucking reason as Harry gets the book out.

Then, Harry smiles. It’s bright, like those old pics Zayn got from his family, with both dimples so deep in his cheeks as his long fingers trace the letters on the cover. Zayn dares to sit on the bed again, just on the edge in front of Harry, and stares at him as Harry opens the book, flipping surely through the pages, turning them as he goes through random scenes that Zayn’s sure are not random to him. He doesn’t make any sound, but his lips are moving, his ringed fingers reverently running over lines and lines of speeches and monologues Zayn knows Harry has all memorized by heart.

Zayn finds that he can’t bear the charged silence anymore, so he speaks. “I… I don’t even know if it’s actually your favourite book, but I know you know it by heart, so I guessed it was a safe bet. I saw there are no books in your… your place. Maybe you miss ‘em, so I bought it for you.”

Harry raises his eyes from the book, and smiles at Zayn. It’s a different kind of smile, a bit weaker, but a bit more honest than all the cocky grins and wicked snickers. “I missed _Hamlet_ like a fucking limb,” Harry chuckles at last. “Thank you, Zayn. And… not just for the book, you know.”

Zayn smiles, and crawls a bit further up the bed, until he’s in Harry’s personal space, and their mouths are closer. “Read me something?” Zayn asks then. “I think the last time I read _Hamlet_ I was in high school or summat.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Pretty lil’ illiterate,” he comments, and then slides down the pillows and hauls Zayn by the shoulders, until Zayn’s head is resting on his chest, the book propped open on Harry’s stomach so that they can both look at the pages.

Zayn must admit he doesn’t exactly recognize the scene, but he reads that it’s Ophelia speaking, just a second before Harry’s gravelly voice starts reading the quote out loud. Or probably not even reading it, just remembering it for Zayn.

“ _He took me by the wrist and held me hard._

_Then goes he to the length of all his arm,_

_And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,_

_He falls to such perusal of my face_

_As he would draw it. Long stayed he so._

_At last, a little shaking of mine arm,_

_And thrice his head thus waving up and down,_

_He raised a sigh so piteous and profound_

_As it did seem to shatter all his bulk_

_And end his being. That done, he lets me go,_

_And, with his head over his shoulder turned,_

_He seem'd to find his way without his eyes,_

_For out o' doors he went without their helps_

_And to the last bended their light on me._ ”

Harry sighs when the quote is over, and Zayn does too. His fingers have started tracing the swallow inked on Harry’s right collarbone, the one on which Zayn’s not currently resting his cheek. Just over the tattooed birds, Zayn can see the faint, very faint, lines of the scratches he himself made on Harry’s skin the night before. “Do you think Hamlet and Ophelia were soulmates?” he asks Harry.

He doesn’t intend to, but the words crawl out of his mouth anyway. It’s dangerous, to open such a subject, and Zayn mentally curses himself for how loose his mouth always is when Harry’s around.

Harry doesn’t seem to find the question particularly weird, and chuckles. “Why do you wonder if they were soulmates? It’s not like… like it matters, at the end of the day.”

“Doesn’t it matter? Being soulmates?” Zayn asks, feeling his stomach do a little one-eighty and hoping it doesn’t show it his voice.

Harry shrugs. “I dunno, I guess I never think much about the soulmate business. My family’s the living, breathing proof that it’s not something you should totally rely on, after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just… like, my Mum and Dad were soulmates, and yet they didn’t work,” Harry says with another shrug. “While my Mum and Robin are not soulmates, but they’ve been together for a long fucking time, and I wanna believe they’ll keep being together. So, see, soulmates doesn’t necessarily mean things will work out. You gotta sweat it if you want it, pretty lil’ thing.”

Zayn hums. “Okay, that’s a good point,” he concedes. “But humour me. Say that the soulmate thing matters. Do you think Hamlet and Ophelia were soulmates? Because they loved each other, and yet they never worked, either.”

Harry chuckles. “I think Hamlet was soulmates with himself, and that’s what killed him. Thinking that he could do anything and everything by himself, because he was _enough_. He wasn’t. Nobody is. Take me for example. I used to think I could be enough for myself too, but I’m not, because I need to be enough for Dilly as well. And I’m so fucking sad that Louis is involved in my fuck-ups, but I’d be dead if he didn’t help me.”

Harry also seems to have said more than he intended to, because Zayn distinctly hears his mouth snap shut, and the book propped on his chest falls closed when he releases his grip on it.

Zayn doesn’t raise his head, giving Harry a moment. “I think that whatever happened to you, Harry, there was no way Louis was gonna leave you alone. That’s not how brothers work. Liam doesn’t even leave me alone with doing my laundry, sometimes.”

Harry chuckles. His chest rumbles and shakes under Zayn’s cheek, and Zayn smiles, sighing in relief when he understands he managed to bring Harry’s mood back to a decent state. “Kinda figured it out,” Harry replies, his hand roaming up and down Zayn’s side. “I believe your Liam interrupted our second attempt at dry humping with his thousand calls.”

Zayn finally raises his head. “Well, your Louis then interrupted us in person.”

“Feisty,” Harry comments, wiggling his eyebrows.

Zayn scrunches his nose at Harry, and lazily hisses like a cat, just to mock him. Harry, though, grins wickedly and gently sets the book aside before grabbing Zayn by the hips and jostling him until he’s straddling him again, Zayn’s knees on either side of Harry’s hips. “Don’t hiss at me or I’ll have to show you how it’s done,” Harry mutters, his fingers going down Zayn’s pecs and stomach, without scratching.

Zayn shivers. “Show me then, kitty.”

Harry’s eyes flash, and his grin is gone by the time he sits up to close the distance between their mouths. Harry shoves his tongue inside Zayn’s mouth, and at the same time he palms Zayn’s hips and grinds them against his own, their erections already growing again and catching on each other, which makes them both hiss. “I wanna ride you,” Zayn says when they come up for air.

Harry nods. “Yeah, fuck, yes, okay.”

It’s a bit of a hassle to retrieve the bottle of lube from the floor where Harry left it the night before, but soon enough Zayn’s straddling him again, rolling a condom on Harry and dripping lube on his dick. Zayn doesn’t even wanna think about how eager he probably looks to have Harry inside him again, but he must look like he is an awful lot, because Harry’s big hands wrap around his waist and stop him. He’d closed his eyes, but he opens them again to look down at Harry, who’s shaking lightly and frowning at Zayn. “Gotta prep you a bit first, babe. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Zayn smiles. It’s just so _Harry_ , to be able to be on a ring and kick the shit out of someone double his size, and then worry about being considerate of his sexual partner in bed. Even the night before, no matter how rough he was with Zayn, it was never too much, never actually painful, never anything Zayn wasn’t asking for.

Zayn sighs, and shakes his head, raising his hips and taking Harry’s dick to line it with his hole. “Still open from last night. You opened me up nice and good, maybe you remember.”

Harry shivers, and his hands tighten around Zayn’s waist. “I’m never gonna fucking forget last night, pretty lil’ thing.”

“You ain’t gonna forget this morning either, kitty, rest assured,” Zayn retorts. “You ruined me last night, but I can ruin you just the same, trust me.”

Harry smirks. “Yeah? Then show me, pretty lil’ thing. Sit on it and ride it. Show me what you think you can do to me.”

Zayn smirks too, but he doesn’t reply. He just slowly starts to sink on Harry’s cock, as slowly as he can, grinning when he feels Harry’s legs start to tremble as he fights himself not to fuck up into Zayn. Zayn only goes slower, until Harry emits an unmistakable whimper, and that’s when Zayn sits completely, quickly, taking him the rest of the way in without any warning.

Harry’s eyes shoot open as he grunts a curse and arches his back, his breath coming out like he’s been punched in the guts. “Fuck, oh, fuck, Zayn.”

Zayn smirks. “This is what I _think_ I can do to you, Harry,” he declares, rolling his hips in a circle.

Harry groans and presses his lips closed, his eyelids trembling. “So fucking… so fucking…”

Zayn smirks and leans over him, to look at him in the eyes and hover over him just because he can, in that position. “So fucking what?” he whispers.

Harry blinks and tugs at Zayn’s hips, to get more friction. “So fucking tight, Zayn,” he says at last. “So tight and warm, it’s like someone made you to take my dick.”

“Bit presumptuous. Maybe I’m just made to take any dick.”

Harry’s eyes flash. “Watch it, Zayn. I don’t think it’s wise to talk about you taking any other dick while you’re riding _mine_. I can be very jealous.”

Zayn decides to push his luck some more, and sits up straight again, giving another roll of his hips. “Jealous of what? I don’t think we talked about being exclusive?”

Harry’s face pales. He stops panting, stops cursing, stops doing anything, and he just stares up at Zayn with his absurdly wide and green eyes. “Do you want it? Being… Being exclusive?”

“Do _you_ want it?” Zayn retorts, halting all movements.

His heart almost hammers its way out of his chest when Harry takes his time to reply, sitting up so that their faces are close again. “Yes,” Harry says then. “Gave you my rose ring. As I said other times already, I don’t give that ring to just anyone.”

Zayn grins, making a show of examining Harry’s ring on his own index finger. “Yeah, it’s too pretty to be anywhere else but on _me_ , to be honest.”

Harry chuckles. “Bit presumptuous, huh?” he asks sarcastically, wrapping an arm around Zayn’s waist.

Zayn won’t have it, though, because he knows Harry would very much like to celebrate their decision of _fucking dating what the fuck am I doing_ by fucking Zayn into the mattress, but that’s not what Zayn wants. Zayn wants to be the one doing all the work, turning Harry into a writhing mess, so that Harry will lose his mind like Zayn’s been doing since they first spoke.

So Zayn shakes his head, and pushes at Harry’s chest until Harry’s lying down again. Zayn props his hands on Harry’s pecs, and bucks his hips again, which makes him sigh and Harry groan. “Gotta sweat it if you want it, Harry Styles,” he declares.

Harry chuckles breathily. “You’ve been making me sweat it since you showed up at _The Creek_ , pretty lil’ thing.”

Zayn doesn’t bother answering, because the feeling of Harry’s big, thick length in him is becoming the only thing he can care about in that moment, the more he moves on it. Harry must notice and agree, because his eyes start rolling back in his head more frequently, and his hands try to grip tighter onto Zayn, only to slip away because they’re sweating and their skin is damp.

Zayn fucks himself on Harry for the longest time he can manage, making Harry curse and hold back his screams for the sake of the other people in the house.

“Zayn, fuck, Zayn, please, make me come, make me come, I’m losing my fucking mind…” Harry whines at last.

Zayn smirks. “Begging already?” he asks, breathless and very close to beg _himself_ too.

Harry doesn’t have any regrets in nodding. “Yeah, yeah, I’m begging you, I don’t fucking care, it’s too good, I’m gonna lose it, you’re so fucking filthy on top of me, how can I _not_ beg you, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Zayn shushes him, smirking on his lips before going for a dirty kiss. “This is what a pretty lil’ thing can do to you, kitty,” he tells Harry in barely a murmur.

The next moment, he’s riding Harry in earnest, much faster and quicker than before, and it takes him no time to realize that clenching around Harry is what does him in. Harry gasps like he’s being choked and then he’s coming inside the condom, his hips arching off the bed and rattling Zayn’s whole body on top.

The momentum makes Harry hit Zayn’s prostate, and the next second Zayn’s coming too, shuddering and painting Harry’s stomach in white ropes.

They don’t even bother cleaning themselves properly. Zayn just uses the sheets he still has to change, and wipes the come off of their bodies, then rolls the condom off Harry and gets rid of it.

When they’re at least decently taken care of, Zayn lies down next to Harry again, and looks up at him, studying his face for a moment before speaking again. “You said I could come to the match tonight,” he says, and it’s not a question.

Harry hums, the arm wrapped around Zayn’s shoulders tightening a little. “You can. But as I said. You won’t like it. It’s gonna be awful.”

“Will you get hurt a lot?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. Last time I had to sleep in the club because I couldn’t let Dilly see me in those conditions.”

Zayn sighs and opens his mouth, but Harry’s quicker to place his thumb on Zayn’s lips. “I have reasons for doing what I do, Zayn. I told you. I’ll tell you. After the match. Please say that it’s enough.”

Zayn stares in Harry’s eyes for a long moment before giving up. “Okay. After the match. I’ll be there.”

+

The fighter from _The Jungle_ against whom Harry has to lose couldn’t be called ‘the Koala Bear’ or ‘the Unicorn’ or ‘the Cute Hummingbird’, no, Zayn thinks with a worried sigh.

The man had to be called The Venom.

Zayn has heard the name being whispered among the crowd more than once, while he’s been sitting at the bar with Sophia manning it and wearing a sour expression. “I have a shit feeling about this,” the girl tells Zayn with a frown.

Zayn nods. “Of course you do, doll. We all know how it’s gonna end.”

Sophia sighs and shakes her head, looking around for a bit before turning to face Zayn again. “No, Zayn, I ain’t talking about Harry having to lose. It’s just… those people from _The Jungle_. They never play by the rules. And I’m scared.”

Zayn feels his heart clench. “You said there are no rules.”

“We have _some_ rules. No weapons. No killing. No retaliation,” Sophia amends.

Zayn gulps down. “Have they… have they ever broken _these_ rules?”

Sophia nods grimly. “Yeah, they did. I’d tell you to ask Simon Cowell, but you might have to go to the graveyard for that.”

Zayn wants to ask her who’s Simon Cowell, because he’s heard the name around a couple times. Instead, he pats her on the shoulder, trying to be comforting when he wishes there was someone to comfort _him_ , and then he stands up. He decides to go look for Harry in the locker room, even if he originally intended to leave him alone for a bit. Zayn finds out soon that he _doesn’t want_ to leave Harry alone.

The bouncers don’t even look at the ring when he shows it to them. They probably know who he is, by now.

_Who am I? Am I his boyfriend? Do they think I’m just a good fuck he keeps going to? Am I a good fuck he keeps going to?_ , he thinks, but he pushes back those thoughts, because now’s not the time.

Harry’s alone in the locker room, wearing nothing but gym shorts, his hair in a bun and his knuckles already ring-less and bandaged as usual. He’s turned his back to the door, and he’s muttering something to himself, quietly punching the metal of his own locker, but just lightly, without making any damage.

The small door of the locker bounces open, then Harry locks it again with another little punch, and then the next punch makes it bounce open again.

“What did that little door do to you, you caveman?” Zayn chuckles.

Harry turns. He’s not smiling, but his eyes sparkle a bit when he sees Zayn. “I feel the need to ruin lil’ things, sometimes.”

Zayn arches an eyebrow, getting closer to Harry. “Maybe one day all the lil’ things will team up and ruin you.”

“I can’t wait,” Harry replies in a whisper, covering the distance between himself and Zayn in one single step, and kissing him roughly. His bandaged knuckles make it difficult for him to open his fingers and card them through Zayn’s loose hair, but he manages anyway, tugging at the roots a little bit as their tongues collide. “Will you be okay?” Zayn asks at last.

Harry shrugs. “Hopefully so. If not, you’ll tend to my wounds, right?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “I hate this.”

“Oh, really? I love it loads,” Harry replies sarcastically with a chuckle, before getting serious again and resuming his tormenting of his locker door. “No, but seriously. I… I hate losing. I never lose. But we all lose sooner or later.”

Zayn sighs, and he can’t help the rush of affection he feels for that wide back and those defined arms, so he wraps his own arms around Harry’s torso and hooks his chin on Harry’s shoulder. “Even if people will see you lose, you’ll always know you didn’t lose for real, though. It’s fake. You’d win if you didn’t _have to_ lose, for whatever reason. So you’re not really losing, are you.”

Harry hums. “You’ll probably be scared anyway. Sorry about that. Maybe it was a shit idea to let you come and watch.”

Zayn arches an eyebrow. “Like you honestly think you have any power over what I decide to do.”

Harry laughs. “Also true. My pretty lil’ thing, so feisty.”

They kiss again. Zayn sags a little against Harry’s firm chest, his hands grabbing the muscles of his pecs, right over his nipples, and squeezing. Harry groans and sighs in response, his eyes closing when he slides his tongue deeper inside Zayn’s mouth.

It only lasts a moment. Then, Harry interrupts the kiss, and just rests his forehead against Zayn’s, sighing with his eyes closed. “I gotta go. See you later, pretty lil’ thing. Come cheer for me,” he only says, kisses Zayn in the middle of his eyebrows, and then he’s gone, out of the locker room and towards the ring.

The locker has swung open, giving up under Harry’s fidgeting, and Zayn’s heart twitches when he sees the pictures glued inside. Zayn is sure they’re new, even if he hasn’t seen the inside of Harry’s locker before. Because the pics have been taken the night before. One of them is Harry and Dilly, laughing and rolling in the grass of Zayn’s backyard.

The other one is Zayn and Harry, sitting next to each other and sharing a knowing grin for some reason, probably at the expenses of Liam and Sophia.

“He asked Soph to print those two pics in time for tonight,” someone says behind Zayn. When he turns, he sees Louis standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and a sad expression on his face. “Said he needed something cute and hopeful to go back to inside this room.”

Zayn doesn’t reply to Louis’s admission that Harry considers _him_ something cute and hopeful to go back to. Instead, he takes a breath and closes the locker. “Dilly?” he just asks.

Louis smiles. “She’s okay, don’t worry. Greg’s upstairs with her, they’re having a tea party. I… I never come down to watch Harry’s matches. But I do, when it’s against _The Jungle_. I’m… I’m scared, Zayn. Did Harry tell you? About them?”

Zayn shakes his head, and gets closer to Louis. “Not yet. He said he’d tell me after the match.”

Louis sighs. “Okay. Then let’s hope it’s a quick one. Come on, lad. Let’s go stand by the ring so he sees us. Nobody else is allowed to stand there, did you know? Not after Simon.”

Zayn frowns at Louis’s words while they walk through the crowd, making their way up to the ropes delimiting the space, and then crawling under them to stand in the same spot where Zayn stood for Harry’s match against Dermot.

“Who’s Simon?” Zayn asks Louis.

Louis sighs. “He’ll tell you after the match, you said. Be patient.”

“Yeah, pretty lil’ thing,” comes Harry’s voice next to them. “Be patient.”

Harry isn’t looking at any of them, though. He’s looking beyond the ring, on the opposite corner, where his adversary is already standing, ready for the host to open the fight.

The man called The Venom isn’t particularly built, at least not compared to people like Dermot or even Grant. His build is more similar to Harry’s, because he’s tall and lean, with defined but not huge muscles rippling under his skin. He has a grin Zayn doesn’t like on his face, as he stares at Harry jump on the ring. Harry, who would usually grin back and look like the Cheshire Cat, isn’t grinning or smiling at all. His eyes are cold, and so is the rest of his face, and he doesn’t look scared, but he doesn’t look like he’s happy to fight either. Everything looks so different from the first fight of Harry’s that Zayn watched.

The Venom is also only wearing gym shorts, and his hair must be long, like Harry’s, too, because he’s got it wrapped up in a bun, although the bun is so tight it looks kinda painful where Harry’s is lazy and messy, with curls escaping the hair-tie.

“I hate this,” Louis mutters, his blue eyes set on the Venom.

Zayn nods. “Me too,” he agrees.

Louis shakes his head. “No, I ain’t talking about the fight. I hate Harry’s mood, Zayn. Look at him. He’s so fucking nervous and jittery. He doesn’t wanna lose. But he has to. If… if he fucks up, we’re fucking dead.”

Zayn doesn’t reply, but he does what Louis told him, and stares at Harry. He can’t look at him in the face from where they’re stood under the ring, but Harry’s really as jittery as Louis says, because he’s quietly jumping on the balls of his feet, his hands balled into fists already, like he’s preparing himself for the fight.

He doesn’t need to _prepare_ , is the thing. Zayn knows how this fight needs to end. He doesn’t know the reasons, but he _knows_.

The Venom has light brown eyes, and olive skin. The naked parts of his body look free of any ink, but Zayn can spot a couple of flowers on his hip. Dermot was covered in ink, and yet Zayn is twice as scared of the Venom, despite the absence of creepy drawings on his body.

The host declares the match open. Zayn doesn’t even listen, because as soon as the man is out of the ring, Harry doesn’t stall and wait like he usually does.

He attacks, immediately, getting a punch straight to the Venom’s jaw. The Venom is a bit taken aback, probably wasn’t expecting such a blatant and out-of-character move from Harry, but he doesn’t seem too affected.

He just grins, and delivers his own blow, to Harry’s face. Harry ducks, punches the Venom in the stomach. The Venom avoids the blow, though.

“You in a mood, Cat?” the man asks. Zayn reckons he’s just five or six years older than Harry.

Harry doesn’t reply. He delivers blow after blow. Most of them don’t get their target, and Zayn horribly gets the feeling that it’s not on purpose that Harry’s missing. Harry looks like he wants to fucking _destroy_ the Venom, only he’s too nervous and angry to properly do that.

He wonders if it’s all part of the show of this fake fight, or if Harry’s fucking risking something Zayn doesn’t exactly know about.

The Venom doesn’t seem deterred. If anything, he laughs in Harry’s face, like he’s playing with a kid who can’t possibly win against an adult, and a moment later Zayn sees the Venom’s whole body whip like a snake, so quick he almost doesn’t see it, before he flexes his arm and punches Harry straight to the guts.

Harry falls on the floor, and the audience gathered all around the ring gasps. Zayn gasps too, because he _knows_ Harry isn’t faking it. And because he can already feel a bruise forming and hurting on his own stomach.

_They call him the Venom ‘cause he attacks like a snake_ , Zayn realizes.

Louis’s hand wraps around Zayn’s wrist even though the lad’s eyes never leave his best friend on the ring. “He’s losing. He’s losing for real. He’s not focused enough. Venom’s gonna fucking _end_ him.”

Zayn shakes his head. “No, Louis, no, he’s gonna be fine,” he replies frantically, trying to convince himself more than Louis.

Harry tries to stand up, but the Venom places his foot on his sternum, and kicks twice, once on Harry’s chest, and then under Harry’s chin.

Harry screams in pain, and rolls on the floor of the ring a couple times, ending up on all fours and panting. He coughs and spits. Zayn feels faint when he sees blood in Harry’s spit.

Harry stands up anyway, like the blows weren’t that bad, which Zayn hopes with all his heart.

The Venom chuckles. “That all you have today, Cat?” he asks. “I was told I was gonna fight the Cheshire Cat, not a kitten.”

Harry still doesn’t reply. He doesn’t give the Venom any of his snarky remarks, any of his jokes.

The Venom _wants_ them, though. “Where’s your _pretty lil’ thing_ , Cat? She upstairs? Playing with her dolls? Or, maybe not. You can’t even go out of the house long enough to buy her a doll, can you? You’re locked in here.”

Zayn feels all his organs melt when the Venom and Harry circle one another as the man speaks, because then he can see Harry’s face, and it’s a whole other kind of anger, as soon as Dilly is brought up. “Shut up,” Harry growls.

The Venom laughs. “Why? Don’t wanna talk about your _pretty lil’ thing_? That’s how you call her, innit? Cute lil’ bun, I gotta say. Saw her two days ago here. She was helping the girl at the bar dry the glasses. She had this cute pink dress on, and pigtails! You make them for her? I wonder how long you’ll still be able to do her hair, before we fucking smash her little skull against a wall.”

“Shut up!” Harry screams, and lounges forward while the audience screams, oblivious.

Zayn and Louis also scream, shouting the same word. They both scream “No!” at Harry, because it’s clear, that _The Jungle_ doesn’t play by the rules, but Harry isn’t playing by the rules either that night. He was losing before, but he isn’t _now_.

He attacks the Venom’s face, landing a fist straight to his cheekbone, hard enough to break the bones of a weaker man. The Venom’s face doesn’t break, but he’s hurt, because he screams in pain and falls to the ground, where Harry doesn’t give him time to do anything before he’s delivering a kick, and then another, and another. “Don’t talk about her,” Harry growls. “Don’t fucking _look_ at her, you can’t touch her, you _won’t_ touch her, you won’t be able by the time I’m done with you.”

Harry doesn’t stop speaking, and he doesn’t stop hitting the Venom.

The man fends Harry off the best he can, but it’s not enough. Zayn has never actually seen Harry angry, but he’s seeing him now, and it’s scary.

It’s like Harry isn’t even conscious that he’s on a ring anymore, because the Venom brought Dilly up, threatened her right to Harry’s face, so Zayn can’t even find it in his heart to blame Harry for fighting back. Zayn knows violence is wrong, and this side of Harry, this _really_ violent one, he doesn’t like it.

But it’s _his daughter_ they’re talking about, and Zayn has met enough parents, his own included, to know that there’s hardly anything to be rational about when you know your kid is in danger.

And if he’s honest with himself, his own fists have balled when the Venom spoke that way about Dilly, and maybe there’s just a small part of him that would have tried to land a blow of his own, the way Harry taught him, because Dilly’s innocent and small and defenceless, and Zayn has only known her for four days, but he knows they’ll have to go over Harry’s dead body _and Zayn’s_ , before being able to touch her and her green eyes and short, crazy curls in pigtails.

The audience has been reduced to a silent, gasping unity as Harry keeps making a mess of the Venom.

There’s blood all around, and Zayn wonders why nobody’s stopping Harry when it’s clear his adversary is in no conditions to fight back anymore. He’s got a split lip, a black eye, a cut on his eyebrow, and bruises already evident on his neck, chest and stomach.

“Don’t fucking look at her,” Harry growls with another punch.

“Harry, stop!” Zayn shouts.

He’d say that he didn’t mean to, but the truth is that he does mean it. Because Harry isn’t himself in that moment, and Zayn understands how the illegal fights work by then.

Nobody’s gonna stop it.

So he takes advantage of the silence of the whole crowd, and screams, hoping Harry will listen.

Harry does. He doesn’t turn to look at Zayn, because he’d never be as stupid as to avert his eyes from his opponent like that. But he stops hitting the Venom, and he widens his eyes, like he didn’t notice how hard he fought.

Zayn looks around. He sees Grant, standing in a corner with a blank expression, and two more people standing right next to him, people who don’t belong to _The Creek_ , because Zayn’s good with faces, and he hasn’t ever seen them. _The Jungle_.

Sophia is behind the counter, silent tears streaming down her face as she covers her mouth with her hands.

Everyone is so silent it feels like someone has muted the world for a moment.

Zayn doesn’t even dare look at Louis next to him. Instead, he focuses on Harry.

Harry’s panting, looming over the Venom on the floor. The Venom is hurt, probably even badly if the blood on his face is anything to go by, and yet he grins up at Harry. “You’re fucked, Styles,” he murmurs, blood all over his teeth as well.

Harry shakes his head, frantically, with his eyes shot wide open. Then, he hisses like a cat and scratches down the Venom’s throat, quickly, hard, leaving four angrily red lines on the skin. “Long live the fucking _Jungle_ ,” he hisses, and in that moment Zayn realizes how much Harry’s really scared of what he just did.

Harry won the match he was supposed to lose.

The host is the first to recover, and he jumps on the ring, declaring the Cheshire Cat as the winner of the fight.

The audience takes a couple more seconds to recover as well, before starting to cheer so loud the floor shakes. Zayn is disgusted by how much the blood they’re seeing on the Venom, the floor, and Harry’s hands is turning those people on, making them bet their money.

As soon as the host lets Harry’s hand go, Harry jumps off the ring and runs to the locker room, bypassing Louis and Zayn completely.

But Zayn hears him gasp for breath anyway as he goes. Louis grabs Zayn’s arm. “We gotta go after him. This is bad, Zayn. They’ll retaliate. Dilly…”

Zayn nods. “I’ll go after him. You go home. I don’t fucking know what this means, but I understood these people are threatening Dilly. She’s with Greg you said. Go to her as well. Keep her safe. I’ll deal with Harry.”

Louis nods, and pats Zayn on the shoulder before running through the crowd. Zayn goes back to the locker room, watching Louis creep along a wall in the darkness and disappear through the exit without the people from _The Jungle_ noticing him.

_Good._

The bouncers also look scared when they let Zayn through, but Zayn can’t pay them much mind. He runs along the corridor, and bursts inside the locker room.

It’s empty, except for Harry, but it takes Zayn a moment to find him, because he’s sitting in a corner on the floor, whimpering, with his hands covering his face. “What did I do what did I do what did I do…” he keeps murmuring, crying.

“Harry,” Zayn calls him. “Harry!” he says louder, kneeling in front of him when Harry doesn’t seem to even hear him.

Harry gasps, raising his face. It’s stained with blood from the bandages on his knuckles. “It’s me, babe, it’s Zayn,” Zayn tells him unnecessarily, or maybe not that unnecessarily, because Harry seems so scared that he doesn’t even recognize Zayn for a second.

“Zayn,” he then gasps for air. “What did I do? What did I do, Zayn?”

“You won,” Zayn says as flatly as he can. “You won and you’re covered in blood. Come here. Let me take care of it.”

Harry doesn’t speak and doesn’t move, but he doesn’t fight Zayn when he starts untying the bandages on his hands to get rid of them. They’re almost soaked in blood, and Zayn feels like throwing up, but he keeps the nausea at bay by not looking at them, and looking at Harry in the eyes instead.

“Harry, you with me?” he demands, noticing how bad Harry’s shaking.

Harry nods. “They’ll kill her. I won. I had to lose. I got angry. I’ve never been so angry. He said he looked at her. He said… he said…”

“I heard,” Zayn interrupts him. “I heard and I wanted to punch him in his fucking nose too. You gotta tell me what’s going on, Harry. I need to know or I’ll never be able to help you. You said after the match. So now deliver, Harry Styles.”

Harry grabs Zayn’s hands in a vice-like grip. Their fingers are disgustingly slippery with blood, but Zayn doesn’t pay it any mind.

Because then, Harry takes a breath, and delivers, telling Zayn the rest of the story he started four days ago, which could also be four years to Zayn, for how much everything’s changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	8. Violent delights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _These violent delights have violent ends_ , Harry,” Zayn says, taking a breath before continuing the only fucking Shakespeare quote he knows by heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and the original characters.

Meredith had a gambling addiction.

For two years, since Dilly was born and Harry started fighting at _The Creek_ , all the money Harry made from that and gave Meredith for Dilly, she spent it on gambling. At _The Jungle_.

Harry didn’t know. He fought his matches, gave her the money, saw his daughter whenever he wanted to even if they didn’t live together, and that was enough for him. Harry didn’t know, didn’t notice, not until a month ago, when Meredith showed up at his door with Dilly. She told him she was neck-deep in gambling debts with the people at _The Jungle_ , too much money to ever be able to settle it. So she left Dilly with Harry, and left the country.

Harry thought it didn’t matter, that Meredith was just gonna be out of the picture, that he could take care of Dilly by himself. He’d tell his parents. Louis knew, he’d help him explain. Maybe he’d even quit _The Creek_ , find himself a real, good job, and life would move on.

Life didn’t move on, and he never told his family. Because a day later, the people from _The Jungle_ showed up at his door too.

They wanted their money, the money Meredith owed them. They didn’t care that they weren’t married, that Harry couldn’t possibly gather two years’ worth of gambling debts. They wanted to be paid. When they realized that he was the Cheshire Cat, the champion of their rival club, it only made them snicker at their fucking luck.

That day, they saw Dilly. They threatened her, told Harry that he had two weeks, and if he didn’t give them what they were owed, they’d take Dilly and smash her tiny little skull against a wall.

Harry got scared, so scared he couldn’t breathe. So he did the only thing he could. He went to _The Creek_ , and spoke to Simon. Simon Cowell was the owner of the fight club, Harry’s mentor, the one who taught him how to be the Cheshire Cat. He’s the one who gave Harry his rose ring, a family heirloom, something to remind Harry that he can be the Cheshire Cat, but he’s also more. Simon was a good man, and he got scared, for Harry and Dilly.

So, Simon also did the only thing he could think of. He went to the police. He told them about _The Jungle_ , the illegal matches, in the hopes that the police would bust _The Jungle_ , arrest them, get them away from Harry and Dilly.

It didn’t work. Because _The Jungle_ understood what Simon was doing, and by the time the police busted their club, they had moved someplace else, and their old headquarters were empty.

Three days later, _The Jungle_ waited for Simon to get out of _The Creek_ late at night, and they killed him in the parking lot. Three knife wounds to the side. Harry was the one who found the body, the morning after. He thinks that he'll never recover from knowing that Simon was killed because he tried to help him. That’s why, after Simon died, Harry never let anyone be his assistant in any match, and was always alone in his corner of the ring.

Grant became the owner of _The Creek_ after Simon. He’s a good man as well, but he’s also very practical, and he gets scared easily, especially when it’s about _The Jungle_. So, Grant also did the only thing he could. When _The Jungle_ showed up at _The Creek_ , demanding that they hand over Harry Styles and his daughter, Grant made them a deal.

_Let’s have a match between our clubs once a month_ , he said. _The Cheshire Cat will fight. He brings good money. In these fights, sometimes, not too much because people would stop betting, but sometimes, the Cheshire Cat will lose. It'll make people think that_ The Jungle _is the best fight club in the city. It'll bring good money. It'll bring more people to_ The Jungle _. In exchange, as long as Harry and Dilly are on_ The Creek _’s grounds, you can't touch them. What do you say?_

_The Jungle_ accepted. They don’t have morals, they don’t care about honour and the like. They don’t care that the matches they win against Harry are fake. They only care about the money and the crowds betting.

Harry accepted as well. That’s why, a month ago, he had to disappear and move to _The Creek_. He only told Louis, and Louis disappeared with him, because of course Louis would throw his whole fucking life away for Harry. They’re brothers, always have been.

That’s why Harry’s scared to go out, scared that his family will find him and jeopardize him without realizing.

The first fight against _The Jungle_ was the first fight the Cheshire Cat ever lost. It brought good money to both clubs. It brought bruises, but it also brought Harry and Dilly a confirmation that they couldn’t be touched there. Nobody touched them, and they haven’t ever since. They will, if they catch them in the streets, out of _The Creek_ ’s grounds. But Harry is careful, they never go out. Greg and Sophia shop groceries for them. They’re safe at _The Creek_.

Not anymore, though. Harry broke the deal, tonight, when he got too scared and angry, and won when he was supposed to lose.

Now the deal’s broken, and _The Jungle_ will retaliate. They will hurt Dilly, they will kill her.

_What did I do, Zayn?_

+

When Harry finishes his story, Zayn finds himself at a loss of words.

There’s a lot he could say, really. He could tell Harry he’s sorry that he had to go through the last month alone, with Dilly to take care of and just Louis helping him. He could tell Harry that this is way bigger than any of them, and they should go to the police, immediately.

The words don’t come out, though. Because Harry’s shaking so hard he looks like he’s freezing, and he’s crying, the sobs and hiccups jostling him uncontrollably.

“Harry,” is the only thing that leaves Zayn’s lips at last, and the moment later Zayn’s wrapping him in a hug. Harry goes willingly, crying harder and almost crushing Zayn’s ribs as he hugs him back. He buries his face in Zayn’s neck.

“Do you understand now, Zayn?” Harry asks, desperately. “Do you understand why I had to disappear, why I kept saying that nobody can help me, why I had to hide from my own family? It kills me, Zayn. It kills me every single day. But Dilly’s in danger. You told me something, two days ago. You told me that one day I’d be the one putting my own daughter in danger. I did it. Tonight. And now I’m gonna lose her, they’re gonna kill her, and I’ll die with her one way or the other.”

“No, Harry,” Zayn replies. He pulls away, just a little, just enough to be able to look at Harry in the eyes. “No, babe, listen to me. They won’t touch Dilly. Or you. I won’t allow it. You can’t do anything? Then I will. I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell Niall. I’ll do whatever I fucking can.”

Harry shakes his head obsessively, his curls flying. “No, no, no, Zayn, they’ll kill you too, didn’t you fucking listen to me? They killed _Simon_ , and he’s gonna be on my conscience till the day I die. I won’t have you there as well. I…”

“Harry!” someone shouts from the corridor.

Harry gasps, but he doesn’t stand up from the corner he’s still sitting in. Zayn also stays where he is, kneeling next to Harry, as Greg and other people from _The Creek_ swarm the room. There’s Jason, Kyle, Mark, Grant, Andreas, and a couple other people Zayn doesn’t remember the names of. They all have various degrees of panic on their faces.

Harry’s face pales even more when he sees Greg. “What are you doing here? Where’s Dilly?”

Greg raises his hands immediately. “She’s home, she’s safe. She’s with Louis and Liam and Sophia upstairs. Jackson’s with them too. Sophia called Liam when… when she realized you wouldn’t lose the fight.”

“Harry, _The Jungle_ ’s coming here to look for you,” Jason says quickly.

Nobody has time to do anything more, before the door busts open and the Venom barges in with the two other men Zayn saw watching the match from a distance.

The Venom’s face is clean of blood, but still fucked up. There are cuts and bruises everywhere, and one of his eyes can’t open properly. He only looks scarier like this, Zayn thinks.

“You broke the deal, Harry Styles!” the Venom shouts cheerfully. “I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole fucking life. Well, not my _whole_ life, but since we fucking met you at least. I told the others, that it wasn’t gonna work. And it didn’t. I feel generous, though. You can go kiss your pretty lil’ thing goodbye before we split both your heads open.”

“Ethan, maybe we can talk about this and…” Grant starts.

The Venom—Ethan—interrupts him raising a hand. “Not a word, Grant. You know how much we value our word. We kept it. Harry Styles didn’t.”

Zayn moves. He knows he has literally zero chances of winning an actual fight with _that_ man, but he moves anyway, because he might not be strong, but his mouth is, and he’s made bigger fish drown in their own water just by speaking. So he stands up, and places himself right in front of Harry, covering him. “You people don’t value _shit_ , let alone your own _word_ ,” he says coldly. “Back off, Venom.”

Nobody speaks for a moment.

Then, the people from _The Jungle_ start laughing. The people from _The Creek_ , though, don’t laugh. Zayn feels them shift and move, and a moment later Greg’s standing next to him, and then Jason, Kyle, Grant, everyone. All of them stand facing _The Jungle_ , covering Harry with their bodies.

“Who’s _this_?” Ethan shrieks, pretending to dry tears of laughter from his good eye. “Your _boyfriend_? Scrawny little thing you found yourself, Cat. What do you say I smash _his_ skull as well?”

Harry isn’t moving behind Zayn, isn’t speaking.

He doesn’t need to. Zayn can speak for both of them, now. “I might be scrawny, but he says I’m feisty as well,” he tells Ethan. “Back off, or I’ll gauge your fucking eyes out. What’s left of them, at least.”

Ethan laughs. “How does it feel to fuck a coward?” he asks Zayn, gesturing to Harry behind all of them. “Someone who hides behind his boyfriend’s skirt? Well, skinnies. You’d look good in a skirt, though. Pretty lil’ thing you are,” he adds, staring at Zayn up and down and licking his lips.

Zayn grimaces, and he hears Harry growl, but not move yet.

Ethan laughs, probably understanding he struck another nerve, but after a moment the laughter falls away from his face, and his jaw sets when he speaks again. “I wanna make you another deal, Cat, if you have bollocks enough to stand up and face me. Stop hiding behind your friends. You hid enough.”

_No no no, Harry, don’t don’t don’t_ , Zayn thinks frantically, feeling cold sweat run down his spine.

Harry’s not a coward, though. He isn’t hiding. He was just out of breath, out of strength, but now he’s standing up, Zayn can hear him even if he doesn’t turn and doesn’t take his eyes off the Venom and his lackeys.

People shift beside Zayn, when Harry gently removes them so he can step forward. He stops right next to Zayn, and grabs him by an arm, only lightly, pulling him a bit backwards so that he’s now behind Harry, and not the other way round. “Speak,” Harry just tells Ethan.

Ethan sighs dramatically. “This stall situation doesn’t work. We tried to play it your way, but you broke the deal, and we want our money, or we want you dead. So, let’s have another fight. A last one, a _real_ one. If you win, we settle your debt and we stop coming after you and your daughter.”

Harry hums. “And if I lose?”

“If you lose, we kill you and your daughter,” Ethan shrugs. “Let you become an example for people who wanna mess with us and think they can get away with not giving us what we’re owed. Let you and your _pretty lil’ thing_ become a brand new Simon Cowell.”

Harry hums again, while Zayn’s insides churn so painfully he feels bile rise up in his throat. He grips Harry by the wrist, squeezing as hard as he can, hoping Harry will understand what he means. _Don’t accept. It’s not gonna change anything. It’s too dangerous_.

Harry does understand, because there’s no way to misinterpret the sad, weak smile he sends Zayn’s way before removing his wrist from his hand and facing Ethan again. “Who do I fight? And when?” Harry asks, and Zayn’s heart breaks.

Ethan grins. “The Panther. In two days.”

Greg instantly steps forward, grabbing for Harry with a pale face. “Harry, Harry no! No!” he screams, shaking Harry by an arm. Zayn frowns, because he knows Greg’s fear doesn’t have to do with the deal, but with _the fighter_.

Harry doesn’t look at Greg, and shrugs him off.

“Deal,” Harry then says coldly, stretching out his hand. The Venom shakes it.

Zayn sees everybody around looking deadly pale. Grant is the palest of them all, and Zayn knows he’s huge, but he looks infinitely small after those words are spoken.

“Who’s the Panther?” Zayn asks, his voice coming out all wrong.

Ethan and his people laugh at him, but he could care less. He keeps his eyes on Harry, who is still standing next to him, his back straight despite how much he must hurt all over his fucking body.

Harry doesn’t look at Zayn, keeps his eyes on Ethan, but he replies nonetheless. “The owner of _The Jungle_. The man who killed Simon.”

+

Zayn knows he should just leave. Call Harry’s family and tell them he found him, collect their money, and say goodbye. Then, he should call the police and tell Niall everything that’s going down at _The Creek_. He knows Niall’s been trying to bust all the illegal boxing clubs in the city for a good two years, so it would even mean making his friend a favour, if Zayn told him about what he learned in the last few days.

Then, Zayn should go home and forget about Harry Styles.

He even tries to leave, without speaking to Harry because the weight of what he agreed to do is just too much. After the people from _The Jungle_ go away, Zayn goes out the back door into the parking lot, but he doesn’t even get close to his car. Instead, Zayn leans into the wall and lights up a cigarette, sucking it away in barely five drags, and then chain-smokes three more, his hands shaking more and more by the minute, until he’s too full of nicotine to even try to light a fifth.

He looks around the empty, almost dark parking lot. He wonders where exactly Simon Cowell was killed. Was it right where Zayn’s standing now? Was it on the other side? In the middle of it, maybe next to his own car?

Maybe _The Jungle_ are still around and they’re about to show up and kill Zayn for Harry to find his body in the morning as well. The deal was about Harry and Dilly. They never agreed not to touch an eventual partner of Harry’s. _Partner_ , Zayn scoffs to himself. _If I really was his partner, he wouldn’t be throwing his fucking life away without a single fuck given about what I think._

He knows it’s not fair to Harry, to think like that. It was only to be expected, that when presented with the offer of getting rid of the _Jungle_ ’s threat once and for all, Harry would take it, no matter the cost.

The back door opens, and Zayn instinctively flinches. It’s just Harry, though. He looks agitated, but as soon as he sees Zayn, his movements become less frantic, and he heaves a relieved sigh.

_Is he relieved because he thought I just left but I didn’t? Or because he couldn’t find me and he thought those people did something to me?_

Harry slowly walks over to Zayn, and leans into the wall next to him, slouching a bit. “I thought those motherfuckers did something to you. I couldn’t find you. But I knew you wouldn’t leave of your own free will without saying anything.”

Zayn chuckles. “I should have,” he retorts. “But no, they didn’t do anything to me. I’m fucking peachy, as you can see.”

Harry doesn’t notice Zayn’s sour tone, or maybe decides to ignore it. “You were stupid. Showing them that you’re someone I care about.”

“Am I? Someone you care about?” Zayn snaps. “I’m not really sure about that, Harry.”

Harry raises his head and looks at Zayn, but Zayn pointedly keeps his eyes on the ground where he threw his last cigarette without crushing the stub. Smoke is still spiralling up from it. “Why are you angry at me, Zayn? Did I… did I scare you away? I’m sorry if I did.”

“Scare me…” Zayn chuckles bitterly, interrupting his own sentence and then speaking again. “Harry, you don’t get it, do you? You say you care about me, ask me to be fucking exclusive, fuck me against walls, worry that you’re scaring me with all this… this fucking… _violence_ , but you don’t realize that the thing that scares me the most is the way you don’t care about _yourself_ to the point you just agreed to basically bet your own fucking life on a _boxing match_.”

Harry sighs. He brings a hand to his own face, rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips, and then sighs again before replying. “It’s _my daughter_ , Zayn. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You did!” Zayn screams, and then lowers his voice, and finally turns to look at Harry in the face. “You did, Harry. I told you we were gonna go to the police, _I_ was gonna go to the police, tell my friend Niall, and _solve this_! You just had to trust me, but you didn’t. You’d let them kill you on a fucking ring rather than trust me, apparently.”

Harry shakes his head, his mouth curving downwards in a sad tilt. “Zayn, Simon went to the police as well, to save me. And it didn’t count shit. He was dead, right here, two feet from where we’re standing now, _because of me_!” he hisses, pointing at a spot on the sidewalk, very close to them. “I’ll be damned if the same thing happens to you. I don’t think my heart can take it again. Having someone else I care about on my conscience. You shouldn’t even be here. There was a part of me that was worried you’d left because I scared you away with all this fucking _violence_ , but there was also another tiny part of me that kept saying ‘Good. If he leaves, if he leaves you, then he’s safe’. That’s how fucked up I am.”

“I don’t _care_ , Harry! I don’t care if you’re fucked up! I stopped caring the _second_ I realized I had all your pics memorized, all your tattoos, all your fucking smiles with the dimples, and I didn’t even know you!” Zayn grunts, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and shaking him. He doesn’t manage, of course, but he doesn’t stop trying anyway. “You fucked _me_ up by just _existing_ , Harry Styles, the moment I saw you fucking smile in a picture your sister gave me. So you can live in a violent world, you can show me how violent life can be, you can scare me with how violent _you_ can be, but I won’t fucking leave.”

Harry blinks. “Zayn, I…”

“ _These violent delights have violent ends_ , Harry,” Zayn says, taking a breath before continuing the only fucking Shakespeare quote he knows by heart. “ _And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness, and in the taste confounds the appetite: therefore love moderately; long love doth so; too swift arrives as tardy as too slow_.”

Harry gapes. His mouth is shaped in a perfect ‘o’, and it makes Zayn laugh, absurdly. Harry chuckles too, but it’s quick to pass, and the next moment he’s shoving Zayn against the wall, kissing him within an inch of his life. “Did you just fucking quote _Romeo and Juliet_ at me?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah. You said it too. We’re cultured swine around here.”

“Why that one?” Harry asks, his lips ghosting over Zayn’s.

Zayn gulps down some air. “Because it means that loving too hard too fast makes you risk exploding sooner or later. And yet that’s what I’ve always done. I’ve always loved too hard too fast, my mother says it too. I loved you hard and fast even before actually knowing you, after that first night in your locker room. But that’s not _all_ I want with you. I want to keep being with you, I want to love you _more_ and _better_ and _longer_ and _slower_ , and I want you to be _alive_ to do the same, Harry,” he says, feeling his voice break in many points of the sentence, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. “But I won’t be able to do that, if this man called The Panther kills you. So if you really have to fight him, you better not fucking die, okay?”

Harry chuckles, his lips tracing the shape of Zayn’s jaw. “ _Though he be but little, he is fierce_ ,” he whispers.

Zayn hits Harry in the chest. “Are we done reciting fucking Shakespeare in a parking lot? Can we go inside? I’m fucking freezing.”

Harry tilts his head up, blinking. “So you’re staying? You’re… you’re not going away?”

“Of course I’m staying,” Zayn rolls his eyes. “You’re still fucking bleeding, we gotta fix you before Dilly decides she wants to be like her Daddy and fucking starts kickboxing at the ripe age of two. Besides, Greg said Liam’s upstairs with your kid and Louis. I gotta make sure he isn’t having a stroke. He’s very impressionable.”

Liam isn’t, in fact, having a stroke. Quite the opposite.

When Zayn and Harry get inside his shitty apartment and close the door behind them, bolting it, they find Liam and Sophia on the couch, in the middle of a heavy make-out session, so focused on each other’s tongue that they don’t even hear them come in.

“Amazing job at guarding the house, really,” Zayn announces loudly.

They both scream. Sophia, who’s currently half sitting half lying down underneath Liam, lightly pushes at his chest so he’ll get off her, and they both sit straight, red in the face and clearing their throats repeatedly.

Harry does a poor job at hiding his grin. “This is how you keep an eye on my daughter?” he asks Sophia.

Sophia gasps indignantly. “She’s asleep! I would never, if she was awake, there was no way I…”

Harry chuckles. “I’m joking, Soph. Dilly almost saw me and Zayn dry humping three days ago. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be traumatised if she saw you snogging the private investigator.”

Zayn laughs nervously at Harry mentioning the incident of the dry humping, and he kicks him in the shin. Harry is about to retaliate with a kick of his own, but he doesn’t manage, because Sophia gasps again and then she’s on Harry in an instant, examining all the bruises and cuts dispersed all over Harry’s chest, where the Venom kicked him. “Fuck, Harry, we need to take care of these,” she sighs.

Harry winces. “Yeah, I think so. They hurt like a motherfucker.”

Zayn barely manages to restrain himself from agreeing out loud. Because he knows they hurt, he can feel it on his own chest, and he blesses the fact that the new flowers are safely hidden under his shirt, or there was just no way Harry wouldn’t notice.

Liam looks at Zayn, discreetly, and Zayn grimaces a little, shaking his head. Liam sighs, but he doesn’t say anything. Louis and Greg are also in the house, and they show up shortly after.

While Sophia tends to Harry’s wounds—Harry makes a joke about wanting Zayn to do that, but Sophia isn’t having it and hits Harry harshly on the back of his head—they tell her, Louis and Liam about the new deal with _The Jungle_.

Needless to say, they all lose their shit, even Greg who was there to witness the deal being made. Zayn can’t exactly blame them, seeing that he also lost his shit, which then led to him declaring his undying love for Harry Styles in the form of a Shakespeare quote in a dirty parking lot, something they haven’t exactly talked extensively about yet.

But Zayn doesn’t feel like talking about anything in that moment. So he leaves them all to discuss Harry’s upcoming almost-certain-death, and wanders through the corridor, deciding that checking up on Delilah’s sleep is a safer option.

Dilly’s tiny room must have been just a fucking storage room or something, Zayn thinks when he stops on the threshold and looks at her small frame nestled in the duvet. She’s sleeping with a small light on, and she’s clutching the Cheshire Cat stuffed toy to her chest.

Zayn chuckles, a bit proud that his present had such a huge success, and he’d be perfectly content to just stay there making sure she sleeps okay, but Dilly has other plans, because she blinks and wakes up. “Hi Mr. Kitty,” she tells the plush toy.

Zayn snorts, and Dilly notices him too.

She smiles and waves at him with a small hand sticking out of the duvet. “Hi Zayn.”

“Hi, sweetie,” Zayn whispers. He steps inside the room, and sits on the edge of the bed. “Whatcha doing awake?”

“Daddy home?” she asks. “I wait. But I fall asleep. I want Daddy. He hurt? He always hurt.”

Zayn’s heart constricts so much he thinks he’ll never actually stop feeling the pain. “Your Daddy’s home and he’s fine,” he tells her slowly.

“Can we go? I wanna say ‘goodnight, sleepy time’ to him.”

Zayn is nodding and gathering her up in his arms, together with the duvet, before he can actually question it or realize that he’s never picked Dilly up in those days.

As he brings her to the living room, he makes more noise than necessary so that the others will understand Dilly’s awake, and they will put away the bloody rags and cover Harry’s chest, in case they haven’t already done it.

When Zayn shows up with Dilly, Harry looks fine. He’s wearing a clean t-shirt, and all the bruises aren’t visible under it. His face has miraculously been spared by the encounter with the Venom, and there are no traces of disinfectant or bloody tissues around.

Dilly giggles. “Hi Daddy!” she says, followed by a long, unintelligible ramble.

Harry, nonetheless, snorts and nods. “Yeah, I can see that,” he tells his daughter.

Zayn frowns. “How the f… _how_ did you understand what she said?”

“’M her father,” Harry shrugs, and then grins. “She said that you’re carrying her with the cape—the duvet—like a princess and that means you’re a prince now, and she wants you to be the Prince of Kitties because you bought her Mr. Kitty over there,” he tells Zayn, gesturing to the Cheshire Cat safely nestled in the duvet with Dilly.

Zayn pointedly avoids anyone’s gaze in the room, feeling his cheeks warm up, and he just looks down at Dilly, who is grinning at him just like her father would. Zayn sighs. “With these dimples, you could call me the Prince of Sewers and I wouldn’t mind,” he admits, only to her, hoping it’s too quiet for the others to hear it.

Dilly shakes her head. “Nuh-uh! Prince of Kitties!”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Stubborn like her father. Okay, love. I’m gonna be the Prince of Kitties then,” he gives up.

Dilly hums affirmatively, and then makes grabby hands for Harry. Harry, who is currently laughing his arse off, stands up and retrieves the precious cargo from Zayn’s arms. Zayn uses the occasion to tweak one of Harry’s nipples through the t-shirt, and Harry hisses in pain, his eyes flashing at Zayn like he wants to react properly but he can’t, not with Dilly in his arms.

Zayn smiles innocently, and goes to sit in between Liam and Louis on the couch. “Absolutely riveting,” Louis comments.

Zayn is done ignoring all the comments, though, so he chuckles and tries to tweak Louis’s nipple as well. He doesn’t manage, because Louis is even quicker than Zayn, and he blocks his attack only to then reserve the same treatment to Zayn’s own nipple. “You got some nerve, trying to beat the Nipple Tweaking Master at his own game,” Louis declares while Zayn squeals in pain and then rubs a hand over his chest with a muttered curse.

Zayn hears Dilly giggle. “Daddy, Zayn and Lou crazy,” she whispers to Harry.

Harry barks a laugh. “Yeah, my pretty lil’ thing. They are. Let’s go now, sleepy time, yeah?”

Dilly nods, yawning and humming as she rests her head against Harry’s chest. Harry turns on his heels and brings Delilah back to her room. “You can shower first,” he tells Zayn, only briefly looking at him before resuming his walk out of the room. “Shower’s gonna be a bit of a mess after I wash off all the… mud.”

_Blood_ , he means but can’t say in front of his child.

It’s not exactly late, barely ten, but they all had a quite hard evening, so Greg, Sophia and Liam go away to sleep it off. Zayn hugs Liam and whispers to him that he owes him a fuckton of explanations as to how exactly he ended up snogging Sophia on Harry’s couch, and he wants to especially know about the suspicious flower blooming on Liam’s neck, right where Sophia has a hickey now.

Liam blushes and chuckles nervously, but he promises Zayn that they’ll speak when this whole mess is finally over.

When they’re alone, Louis helps Zayn to check his torso and make sure the new flowers aren’t that visible. Zayn feels a bit embarrassed about it, but Louis just rolls his eyes and tells him that Harry might as well have a fucking stroke if he has to deal with finding his soulmate too, tonight, which is fair, so they both make sure he won’t notice. Luckily, the bruises on Harry’s body haven’t reached their peak yet, so all the flowers on Zayn’s sternum aren’t bright enough to be seen over his tattoos.

Louis gives Zayn a set of sweatpants and a tank top, and then sends him off to the bathroom to shower, saying goodnight.

As Zayn gets undressed and lets the water in the shower run so that it’ll be warm when he’ll step inside, he looks around and again realizes just how small the bathroom is. He sighs to himself, wishing with all his heart that Harry could go back to his old place with his kid, give her a proper home, a proper life. He remembers how happy Safaa was when she was a toddler and they would give her baths and let her play with rubber ducks. Dilly probably doesn’t even _know_ what a bath with rubber ducks is.

Zayn steps into the shower, closing the curtain and letting the hot water slosh over him.

He doesn’t even have time to pick up the bottle of shower gel from the holder hanging from the wall before he hears the door open and close again, and then the rustle of someone removing their clothes.

Zayn rolls his eyes when Harry opens the curtain and joins him under the water spray without a word. “We need to talk about personal space,” Zayn says with no heat.

Harry chuckles, getting even closer, until their chests are touching. “We need to talk about a lot of things, I reckon, pretty lil’ thing,” he whispers, tracing the line of Zayn’s cheekbones with his fingers and staring at Zayn’s lips. “But I don’t wanna do it now. Can we talk another time, Zayn?”

Zayn sighs, and nods. “I’m not a thing,” he replies. “Where are your bandages? Sophia just took care of your wounds, didn’t she?”

Harry shakes his head. “Nah, she just cleaned them, made sure I didn’t need stitches anywhere and I didn’t have, like, dirt or other tetanus-bringing substances ready to seep into my blood or summat,” he grins a little. “I told her you could take care of the bandages after I showered.”

Zayn rolls his eyes again. “What if I don’t wanna be your fucking nurse? Maybe I…”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Harry’s lips are on his. They’re not insistent or demanding, but they do effectively shut him up, so much that Zayn tries to protest, but Harry chuckles and shushes him, sucking Zayn’s top lip into his own. “Be quiet, pretty lil’ thing,” Harry whispers. “Everything’s so loud all the time. I want some quiet tonight.”

Zayn stops muttering curses and profanities, and they stop kissing. Harry’s eyes are big when they plant themselves into Zayn’s. They’re still so close that their lips are brushing, and Harry’s hands are wrapped around both sides of Zayn’s face, with his thumbs tracing his cheekbones.

Zayn’s eyes wander over Harry’s torso, because it’s just… _there_ , and because he can see the rivulets of blood swirling down the drain on the floor as it’s washed away from Harry’s body. “Okay then, let’s get you cleaned up,” he sighs, whispering too. “All this blood will make me sick very soon.”

Harry chuckles, kissing him again. “Sorry, my pretty lil’ thing.”

“I’m not a thing,” Zayn rolls his eyes.

Neither of them says out loud that this is bound to be the last time they wash blood off Harry’s body anyway. Because in two days, he either wins the fight against The Panther and gets rid of the threats coming his and his daughter’s way, or he’s not gonna be around to fight again.

Instead, Zayn carefully and delicately smears dollops of shower gel over Harry’s battered torso, getting rid of the dried blood all over his skin. His fingers trace invisible paths along Harry’s muscles, his pecs, his abs, the vee of his groin, and then up again on his shoulders, his biceps, his forearms.

They don’t speak. Zayn doesn’t even look at Harry in the eyes, preferring to keep his eyes on the wounds mirroring the flowers hidden among the many tattoos on his own chest. He wonders if Harry will ever notice them. He’s fairly sure that Harry hasn’t realized yet, or there was no way he wouldn’t have said anything. Harry always speaks his mind, he doesn’t hide, he faces the issues.

Sometimes he does it in the wrong way, but he never backs up, and Zayn admires him for that, has been admiring him for that since the very night he learned about Delilah.

When they’re both clean, and both with the start of a semi they do nothing about, Zayn closes the water and gently pushes Harry out of the shower, in silence. Harry goes easily, stepping on the mat and shaking his hair like a dog before Zayn has time to drape a towel over his head. One of the droplets flying from Harry’s hair hits Zayn in the eye, and he grunts a curse, rubbing at it.

Harry chuckles. “Sorry.”

“You’re a fucking mess,” Zayn replies.

“Your fucking mess?” Harry grins.

Zayn rolls his eyes, but it’s just for show, because the words stir something deep in his stomach, and it’s not just arousal, not entirely. “Yeah, I guess,” he concedes. He wraps Harry’s body in another towel while he uses the first to finally dry his hair like a proper human being, and then gets two more towels for himself. He ties one around his waist and scrubs at his hair with the other until it’s damp enough that it will air-dry and not give him the mother of all colds.

The air in the small bathroom is warm and full of steam when Zayn makes Harry sit on the closed lid of the toilet, and then starts scavenging in the cabinet until he finds Doniya’s cream and bandages right where he left them the day before.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Zayn tends to Harry’s wounds and bruises. He kneels on the mat right between Harry’s legs, and looks up, finding Harry staring down at him with his lips parted and breathing a little raggedly.

Zayn can’t suppress a chuckle. “Calm down, kitty. It’s just the most comfortable position to do this,” he says, and then starts massaging the cream on Harry’s bruises.

Harry shivers and laughs. “Yeah.”

They don’t speak again, as Zayn bandages the wounds that need to be covered and takes care of massaging the cream over all the bruises until it’s completely absorbed into Harry’s skin.

It’s only when everything’s nice and done that Zayn lets his hands travel lower on Harry’s stomach, over the hard abs which contract in the wake of his fingers. Harry heaves a sigh and shifts, and Zayn badly conceals a grin when he sees movements under the towel draped around Harry’s waist.

He should just let Harry go to sleep, but it’s not like he can have any power over himself when Harry’s sitting half-naked in front of him, and he’s kneeling in between Harry’s legs like that. So Zayn unties the towel, and Harry hisses when his dick is exposed.

It’s hard, and leaking, even. Zayn licks his own lips by reflex, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry, because a moment later there are ring-clad fingers carding through Zayn’s damp hair, and Harry’s tilting Zayn’s head up, so that he’ll look at him. “You still have no idea how you look, pretty lil’ thing, so I guess I’ll tell you explicitly,” Harry whispers, leaning over Zayn so that their faces are closer. Zayn wonders if all the people Harry’s fought and won against on the ring have felt his same wave of arousal when Harry was looming like this over them. Somehow, he doubts it.

“Then tell me, kitty.”

“You look like the most innocent thing in the world, Zayn, but if you kneel like this and lick your pretty lips and look up with these big eyes of yours, you can’t expect me to just sit still and _not_ fucking want to _ruin you_.”

Harry has spoken quietly, with his lips travelling up and down Zayn’s cheek, and the hand in his hair is not pulling, but it’s firm.

Zayn chuckles, because Harry might want to ruin him, but he knows he can ruin Harry just the same. “Did I ever ask you _not_ to ruin me, Harry? Did that plea ever leave my mouth?”

Harry blinks. His eyes fall on Zayn’s lips for a moment, and then he shakes his head, his thumb pressing into Zayn’s bottom lip. “No,” he says out loud. “This mouth has done many things to my mind and my body since I met you. But it never asked for _less_. Only for _more_.”

“ _Violent delights, violent ends_ , Harry Styles,” Zayn chuckles.

The next moment, he’s digging his fingers into Harry’s thighs, and swallowing Harry’s dick whole.

Harry’s body jolts and his legs shake under Zayn’s grip, but Zayn doesn’t give him room or time to do anything else. He swirls his tongue around the head, letting a string of spit run down his length so that the glide is smoother, and then he starts bobbing his head up and down.

It’s not enough. Harry’s already a whimpering and stuttering mess, but it’s not enough for Zayn, so he doesn’t stop, but he brings one of his hands to the one Harry still has in his hair, and pushes at it a little bit.

The gesture must be clear, because Harry gasps, and he grows harder in Zayn’s mouth. Zayn can’t see Harry’s face because of the way he’s crouched in between his legs, but he can imagine his lips parting, his eyelids fluttering.

Harry takes a deep breath, and then pushes Zayn’s head down on his cock, tentatively.

Zayn gags, and Harry stops, but only for a moment. He gives Zayn time to adjust, and then guides his head down again, once, twice, three times, until he’s fucking Zayn’s mouth in earnest, a series of grunts erupting from his lips every time he hears a gagging noise coming from Zayn’s.

“I don’t, ah, I don’t think anyone would ever believe me, ah, if I told them, _fuck Zayn fuck_ , if I told them how filthy and sinful I’ve seen you look,” Harry mutters, his sentence breaking into pants and curses.

Zayn chuckles. He runs the hands he has on Harry’s thighs up, feeling his torso, and slurping greedily. They’re so quiet that they can hear all the dirty sounds they’re making, and Zayn fucking loves it, he loves the filth, loves the dirty, and he loves that it makes such a mess of the cold and calculated Harry Styles for him.

Zayn hollows his cheeks more, sucking and at the same time scratching his blunt nails down Harry’s biceps, where he knows Harry hasn’t already been hurt. He doesn’t apply much pressure, but he makes sure Harry feels the scratches anyway.

Harry’s hips buck. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” he warns Zayn.

Zayn doesn’t do anything. He just bobs his head three more times, and then Harry’s coming down his throat, muffling a grunt in his own hand.

Zayn lets his dick go with a _pop_ , sits back on his haunches so he can look up at Harry in the face again, and then swallows.

Harry’s eyes roll back in his head. “Fuck, pretty lil’ thing,” he murmurs, catching his breath. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

Zayn grins, and runs his thumb over the corner of his mouth, where he feels a stray drop of come. He sucks on it. “’M not a thing.”

Harry chuckles, and shakes his head before standing up and wearing his boxers while Zayn does the same. “You’re _my_ pretty lil’ thing,” Harry retorts, winking.

Zayn rolls his eyes. He’s still painfully hard in his towel, but he doesn’t move to do anything about it, because he knows Harry’s tired and sore and worried. What he just did wasn’t about sex. It was about Harry. About giving him the quiet he said he needed, without speaking.

Harry stares at Zayn while he wears his underwear, and then he’s on Zayn in a moment, cupping his hard cock through the boxers, and running his tongue up Zayn’s neck, nipping at his earlobe and eliciting a mighty shiver from him. “Now let me show you how I can make my pretty lil’ thing lose it too,” Harry whispers.

Zayn chuckles. “Bold of you to assume it’ll be as mind-blowing as what I just did, kitty.”

Harry grins, and dips a hand in the waistband of Zayn’s boxers. His fingers wrap around his dick, with all the rings still in place, which is a thing Zayn secretly has a kink for and he’ll never admit it, although he suspects that Harry understood it. “As I said,” Harry whispers right in Zayn’s ear, “sometimes I feel the need to ruin pretty lil’ things.”

Even in this occasion, Zayn has to admit that Harry Styles delivers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	9. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gemma sighs. “I spoke to my Mum and Robin. And they want to, like, they want you to stop looking. Stop looking for Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and the original characters.

Zayn is awoken by the insistent ringing of his phone. A quick glance to the clock on Harry’s bedside table tells him it’s late in the morning, way past ten. Harry’s still in bed with him, and Zayn instantly feels his stomach drop a little when he sees him sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, his face pale as he holds Zayn’s ringing phone and stares down at it.

Zayn sits up too, shaking his head to get rid of the last cobwebs of sleep from his brain, and leans over to look at the caller ID.

_Gemma Styles_.

“Fuck,” Zayn mutters to himself. “Harry…”

Harry shakes his head and hands Zayn the phone. “Answer. Please, answer,” he just says.

Zayn sighs and nods, accepting the incoming call and putting the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, Zayn. I’m sorry, were you asleep? I still don’t, like, know your working schedule, it’s weird,” Gemma says in a sombre tone.

Zayn chuckles. Now that he’s spoken to Harry quite frequently, he can recognize the same accent and the same sarcasm in his sister’s way of speaking. “’S all good, Gemma. Yes, I was asleep. But I had to wake up eventually.”

Gemma chuckles too, but it’s a bit tentative. “Zayn, I… fuck, I don’t know how to say…”

Zayn doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence, because a moment later Harry’s ripping the phone away from his hand. Zayn’s insides flip, because for a wild second he’s scared that Harry will just give up and fucking _talk_ to his sister, blowing up his cover, Zayn’s, and jeopardizing the very reason he disappeared from his family’s life without as much as a goodbye.

But of course, Harry doesn’t. He just puts Gemma on speaker with shaky hands, his eyes filled with tears and his lips pressed in a thin line, so tightly it must be painful.

_He just wants to hear her voice_.

“Um, Zayn? Please say something,” Gemma murmurs. Harry covers his mouth with his hand, and cries silently.

Zayn doesn’t think about it, and lets his hand snake to Harry’s other one, entwining their fingers. The grip of Harry’s hand is strong, it almost hurts, but Zayn takes it. “Gemma?” Zayn says. “Sorry, gotta say that again, the line went down for a mo’ or summat.”

Gemma grunts frustratedly. “I just sweated something awful to tell you, and now you’re gonna make me say it _again_?”

Harry chuckles without a sound, shaking his head at his sister’s belligerent tone. Zayn grimaces. “Sorry. Shitty phone company.”

Gemma sighs. “I said that… I spoke to my Mum and Robin. And they want to, like, they want you to stop looking. Stop looking for Harry.”

Zayn doesn’t know how to feel about that. There’s a part of him that is even relieved, because Harry stopped feeling like a case right the very second their eyes met for real, and Zayn’s been dreading the moment in which the next pay-check from the Styles’ will come through, because he feels like a fucking fraud taking their money now.

But there’s also another part of him that wants to scream at Gemma that no, they shouldn’t ask him to stop looking, because it would mean they’ve lost all their hopes when Harry’s _right there_ , alive and wanting to see them all again.

“Zayn I swear to God if you make me say this again I’ll fucking flip,” Gemma grunts.

Harry, despite it all, despite his tears, presses his hand into his mouth more not to laugh.

Zayn takes a breath. “I heard you. And… I’m sorry. That I couldn’t find him. But I understand.”

“Zayn, if it was for me, I’d never tell you to stop!” she replies heatedly. “I even had a row with my Mum about it. You’re a good detective, and if you didn’t find Harry, it’s ‘cause the fucker doesn’t _want_ to be found, so you have nothing to say sorry for. He was always ace at hiding, since we were little and playing hide and seek.”

Harry gulps down some air, and dries his eyes with the hand that is not crushing Zayn in its still vice-like grip. “And,” Gemma adds, “I would have you keep looking in a heartbeat, but I… I don’t have the money for that, without my Mum and Robin. Not anymore. I’m gonna have… some more expenses really soon.”

Zayn frowns, and sees Harry furrow his brow just the same. “What do you mean? Are you okay, Gemma?” Zayn asks, a bit eagerly, and he _means_ it. Apparently, all the Styles’ have a penchant for growing on Zayn pretty quickly, making him worry sick at the minimal sign of distress.

Gemma sighs. “I guess I can tell you, like, we’re not exactly friends, but I feel like we became friends anyway,” she answers. “I’m pregnant. Me and Jack found out a week ago.”

Zayn gapes. Harry’s hand slips from his own, and when Zayn finds the bollocks to look at him, Harry’s standing up from the bed, covering his face with his hands as he stumbles away, to the window, where his shoulders shake with sobs he can’t control. Zayn is sure that Gemma can’t hear him from there.

“That’s… congratulations, Gemma, that’s amazing,” Zayn replies, not being able to fight the smile surfacing on his lips. “I’m… I’m sure you must be happy. Your parents too. And, um, I’m sure your brother would be happy as well. If he knew,” he adds carefully, staring at Harry.

Harry, through his tears, nods frantically.

Gemma sighs. “Yeah, of course he would. He’s been teasing me about finally making him an uncle from the very second I married Jack. I always replied that if he didn’t stop having all those one-night stands, he’d make me an aunt before I could even think about making him an uncle.”

Zayn arches his eyebrows at Harry, who half chuckles, half cries from the window where he’s leaning into the sill like his legs aren’t properly holding him up. Gemma doesn’t even know how right she is in that moment.

“Zayn?” Gemma murmurs after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“Now that you don’t work for us anymore, can I tell you something?”

Zayn nods, but then also says “Yes” out loud, remembering that Gemma can’t see him.

“I think you found Harry, but you can’t tell us for some reason.”

Harry’s lovely face hardens and pales, and Zayn’s sure that the blood is also flowing away from his own cheeks, because he feels his stomach twist at Gemma’s words. “What… what do you mean?”

“I saw you three days ago,” Gemma says quietly. “In a bookstore. I was there because I wanted to buy a card to tell Jack he was gonna be a father very soon. I tried to call your name but you were in a rush or summat, and you didn’t hear me. But I saw you. I saw… I saw your hands while you paid for the book you were buying. I saw the ring on your index finger.”

Harry closes his eyes, defeatedly, and Zayn mouths a curse, looking at the ceiling. He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t know what to say.

“Zayn? Was it Harry’s ring on your finger?” Gemma asks.

Zayn inhales and exhales. “I can’t exactly say, Gemma.”

Gemma chuckles. “That’s an answer enough. Listen, Zayn, I’ve… I’ve trusted you with all I have, from the moment my parents and I hired you, and I still do. So I thought about it, and I decided that if you found Harry and are helping him hide, there must be a really fucking good reason. Or at least I hope for you that there is one, otherwise you’re both gonna get a kick in your fucking bollocks as soon as he comes back home,” she declares. “So I’m not gonna ask you where he is, what he’s doing, what’s going on. I’m gonna trust you a while longer. But… can you tell him something from me? Please?”

Zayn looks up from his phone, to Harry again. He’s still as a statue, his hands gripping the marble of the window sill so hard Zayn’s afraid the sill or his knuckles are gonna break soon. Harry just nods, even though he’s staring at the phone on the bed and not at Zayn.

“Yeah,” Zayn just breathes out.

Gemma sniffles. “Can you tell him that I love him, no matter what, and that he’s still my baby brother, and that he’s gonna be an amazing uncle?” she almost moans. “And that I miss him. Don’t tell him I cried though. I don’t want him to worry about me. Whatever’s going on must be bad enough already. So tell him that I’m happy I’m gonna be a Mum in nine months, and that I miss him, and that I’ll always love him. Can you do this for me? As a friend, and not just a fucking private investigator?”

Zayn looks at Harry. Harry’s looking back at him now, too, and his green eyes are bloodshot for how much he’s crying, for the effort of not making a sound, and Zayn kinda feels like crying as well when he sniffles on his own and answers. “Yeah, love,” he tells Gemma. “I’ll tell him.”

Gemma laughs wetly. “Tell Louis too, the fucker. I mean, don’t tell him the sappy parts, he’ll never let me live this down when they both come home. But tell him I kinda miss his pointy chin. And don’t give me your whole _we can’t assume they’re together_ bullshit again, Zayn. There’s no fucking way Harry and Louis got separated. Unless one of them hit their head and suffered memory loss. Which is unlikely, this is not a fucking movie.”

Zayn, despite the situation, snorts a laugh. “I’ll do my best. Gemma, don’t… don’t tell anyone, okay? Not even your parents or Eleanor. It’s very important that you don’t tell anyone,” he tells Harry’s sister, in his best serious tone.

He thinks about Louis’s girlfriend for a moment, and about Louis asking him to tell Eleanor their secret code if he ever ran into her. Zayn hadn’t run into Eleanor Calder, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have risked telling her. The less people know about this whole mess, the better, he reckons, and he knows Louis understands, seeing that he threw his relationship out of the window with his own hands for this.

Gemma sighs. “I won’t. _Especially_ not Eleanor. I only wanna kick you in the bollocks, but I think if Eleanor gets a hint of this, she’ll fucking rip your face off, Zayn. And your face is pretty, so I’d like it to stay on your person.”

Zayn laughs nervously. “Yeah, we can agree on that. I’m a huge fan of keeping my face where it is.”

Gemma laughs earnestly, at least.

She says bye to Zayn after that, and only when the phone call is over does Zayn stand up from the bed as well, moving some steps closer to Harry, slowly, because he doesn’t know if Harry wants to be left alone after so many fucking emotions first thing in the morning.

Harry doesn’t push Zayn away when he finally reaches him by the sill. The curtains are closed, but the blinds behind those are letting some sunlight filter inside, so all of Harry’s pale, bruised torso is bathed in golds, and so is his now loose hair, reflecting a thousand shades of brown. Zayn wore his tank top during the night, which he blesses, because he can see the red and blue and purple bruises deep on Harry’s skin, and he knows his own flowers can’t be hidden now, not even by his ink.

Harry sighs and goes straight for Zayn, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s middle and resting his forehead on Zayn’s collarbone, shaking a little. “She’s pregnant,” he mutters. “I’m gonna be an uncle. She’s still waiting for me to go home. She still loves me.”

“Of course she still loves you, babe,” Zayn replies, pulling Harry even closer and speaking as quietly as he can. “She’s your sister, Harry. Sometimes siblings know best. And I say so with all my regrets, seeing that I have _three_ sisters, two of which are even younger than me, and they still know better than me every fucking time.”

It gets a breathy, teary laugh out of Harry, which Zayn feels against the side of his neck, where Harry’s face is buried now. “Thanks, Zayn. For… for not betraying me,” Harry murmurs then. “You could have given zero fucks, told them everything, and taken the money for a job well done. But I asked you not to tell, and you didn’t. So thank you.”

Zayn sighs. “Harry, if I can be honest, you stopped being just a job a long fucking time ago. I wasn’t joking when I told you I kinda fell a little bit for you just looking at your pictures. I’m actually kinda glad I don’t have to consider you a fucking _job_ anymore, officially. And if it’s stupid, well, then I’m stupid.”

Harry chuckles. “I fell a little bit for you watching you just enter _The Creek_. I think we’re both pretty stupid.”

Zayn doesn’t pull back from the hug, letting Harry decide until when he needs it. When Harry does pull back, though, he doesn’t go far. They stay in front of each other by the window, and Harry, much like he did the night before, stares at Zayn’s eyes, his lips, his whole face, and runs his thumbs over his cheekbones as he speaks quietly. “Do you think Liam will be upset you lost the job?”

Zayn snorts. “Liam will be glad too. I think the whole thing stopped being a job for him as well, the very second he laid eyes on Sophia. She wasn’t part of ‘the case’ but she was still involved. We both were starting to be neck-deep in a huge fucking conflict of interest.”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah, I reckon it would have been a pain in the arse for him as well, being soulmates with a person of interest and whatnot.”

Zayn frowns. “How do you know?”

“I am a very observant person, Zayn,” Harry declares. “The hickey on Soph’s neck and the flower on Liam’s in the very same spot wasn’t hard to notice.”

Zayn blinks, and his heart drops a little, because he thought he’d been the only one to notice that. But if Harry noticed too, then Zayn can’t help but wonder how many other things Harry has noticed and hasn’t spoken about.

Zayn doesn’t ask, though. Now it’s not the time; Harry has a fucking fight with the most dangerous fighter of _The Jungle_ in a day, and nothing is more important than that, not even soulmates and flowers and what Zayn feels. So he shuts up, and Harry doesn’t ask why Zayn isn’t replying.

He just cups both sides of Zayn’s face, and kisses him, his lips grazing Zayn’s gently until Zayn is opening his mouth on a sigh. Harry’s tongue slips inside, running along his teeth and then pushing against Zayn’s own tongue, slowly and languidly, like they have all the time in the world.

“Harry?” Zayn whispers after a while.

Harry hums.

“Can we talk, after the match tomorrow?”

It takes all Zayn has just to ask that question. Because it implies a finally serious conversation about what they’re doing, about what they _are_ , and not only in the soulmate department. And because it implies the fact that Harry will get out alive from the fight, which Zayn knows it shouldn’t be taken for granted, because the man called The Panther is a murderer, and Harry has agreed to face him on a ring.

Nonetheless, Harry nods. “Yes, Zayn. We can talk after the match. I promise.”

Zayn nods too. “Then come back to me after it’s done, and deliver, Harry Styles.”

+

Zayn thinks that he’s getting better at understanding Dilly’s baby talk, because she’s having a long, heartfelt monologue about Mr. Kitty going on an adventure on the beach, and Zayn doesn’t get all the words, but he gets the gist of the story.

His heart twists a little as he wonders if Dilly’s story is her way to express her desire to go to a beach. Maybe she never even saw one. Zayn doesn’t know what kind of life she had with her mother, but it mustn’t have been a good one, considering that the woman was spending Harry’s money on bets rather than on their daughter.

Maybe Dilly heard people talking about a beach, and her brain conjured an image for her, an image of a place where you can play and run and _go out_ , and she longs to do that.

Zayn is starting to make a list of things Dilly should be able to do.

_Baths with rubber ducks._

_Going on a beach._

_Be fucking free_.

Dilly’s sitting on the couch with Mr. Kitty, and Zayn’s sitting next to her, a bit slumped against the armrest. He’s also elongated a leg in front of Dilly so that she won’t be able to fall even if she loses her balance for some reason, and he’s enjoying the part of Dilly’s story where, if he understands correctly, Mr. Kitty meets the Prince of Kitties— _it’s me, I’m in her story_ —when Louis shows up, fresh out of the shower, and snorts. “Harry always does that thing with his leg too when he’s afraid she’ll topple over,” he comments nonchalantly.

Zayn hums, pretending not to be fazed by the new knowledge. “I always did it for my little sister when she was a toddler,” he replies, and it’s not even a lie.

When he finally looks at Louis, Zayn frowns as he notices that he hasn’t worn his top yet and there’s a quite deep flower, an iris, to be precise, blooming on his side.

Louis follows Zayn’s gaze and chuckles, rubbing his fingers on it. “I think El’s particularly mad at me today. She started doing this, sometimes, after Harry and I disappeared. When she’s mad at me, she makes sure I get some bruises. They’re always irises. ‘S her favourite flower.”

Zayn gapes. “Louis, I think your girlfriend is fucking batshit, you know that?”

Louis laughs. “Yeah. She’s absolutely bonkers. You have no fucking idea how much I miss my lil’ psycho,” he says, his voice dropping lower at the end of the sentence as the laughter dies on his lips and he grabs his t-shirt, sliding it on.

Zayn sighs. “It’ll be alright, Louis. We’ll… we’ll find a way to solve this.”

Louis sighs too, albeit a bit defeatedly, and pats Zayn on the shoulder as he goes by to pour himself some coffee. “I hope so, Zayn. I really hope so.”

“And then Daddy saves me, Mr. Kitty, uncle Lou, everybody!” Dilly finishes her long, intricated story. “Prince of Kitties helps him!”

Zayn chuckles, and leans over to ruffle Delilah’s curls. “Yeah, love. Prince of Kitties helps,” he agrees, hoping she’ll believe him more than he believes himself.

She hums and nods, hugging her Cheshire Cat to her chest.

+

Zayn had promised himself that he wouldn’t go to the locker room to look for Harry, he would leave him alone, let him concentrate.

But as soon as _The Creek_ starts to be filled to the brim with people, Zayn comes to terms with the fact that there’s no way he’ll let Harry get on that fucking ring without speaking to him.

Everybody’s there, except Greg, Liam and Sophia, who are upstairs with Dilly. The place is swarmed with people Zayn’s never seen before. People from _The Jungle_. Zayn counts at least fifteen of them, and he wonders if any of them is The Panther.

Andreas and Jackson—Zayn feels like it’s been ages since he just thought about them as ‘the bouncers’—let Zayn through with a grim expression. Everyone working at _The Creek_ looks like they’re about to go to a funeral. Zayn hopes with all his heart that there’s not gonna be any.

Harry’s not alone in the locker room. Louis is there as well, and they’re both gripping each other’s shoulders and looking at each other in the face. Harry’s crying. “You take Dilly, Lou,” Harry’s saying while he sniffles. “As soon as you get the feeling I’m losing, you go and take Dilly, and you _run_. You go to Liam and Zayn’s friend, Niall Horan. He’s that detective Grant’s scared about all the time. The one who’s been trying to bust us and _The Jungle_ for the past year. You go and tell him everything. He’ll protect you. I don’t care about myself, I don’t care if I’m fucking dying in that moment. You leave me here, and you save my daughter.”

Zayn’s heart constricts when he understands Harry’s already deciding a course of action in case the Panther _kills_ him. Zayn has been trying to convince himself that they’re worrying too much, that it’s just another match, and that even if Harry loses, the host will stop it when Harry won’t be able to fight anymore.

But then he remembers something Sophia told him. _They don’t play by the rules. We don’t have many rules, but we have some. No weapons. No killing. But_ The Jungle _never plays by the rules._

Zayn bites hard on his bottom lip when he feels it quiver.

Louis nods, sniffling at Harry as well. “Okay, Haz, I will. I’ll run with Dilly, I promise. But don’t fucking die, Harry, okay? I’ve been with you through thick and thin since we were five, Harry, but I swear to God that if you die, today’s the day I _kill_ you.”

Harry chuckles wetly, and hugs Louis so tight that Zayn wonders if he’s cracking some ribs. Louis seems to be fine when Harry lets him go, and they look at each other in the eyes one more moment, before Louis pats him on the shoulder and leaves the room, running into Zayn on the threshold.

Louis smiles at him, and pats him on the back as well, without saying anything, and then going his way.

Harry’s wearing his usual gym shorts and nothing more when Zayn finally finds the guts to look at him. He’s standing with his shoulders slouching, next to his open locker, in which Zayn can still spot the pictures. He doesn’t have bandages on the cuts he got on his torso two days earlier, but the bruises are still there, as are the matching flowers under Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn takes a step towards Harry, and another, and another, until there’s nothing but a breath between them. Harry sighs, leaning his forehead against Zayn’s. “C’mere,” Zayn whispers, grabbing Harry’s hand. He starts removing Harry’s rings, one by one, slipping the chunky pieces of metal in his own pocket. “I’ll take care of these,” he tells Harry, keeping his eyes on their hands. He grabs the now clean bandages from Harry’s locker, and ties them in place around Harry’s knuckles.

Zayn then gives Harry’s other hand the same treatment, until Harry’s hands are ready to fight, and Zayn’s pockets are full of rings. Their foreheads are still joined and they’re still in utter silence when Harry slips his bandaged hands through Zayn’s loose hair on the nape of his neck, pulling his face closer, and kissing him slowly and wetly. “Cheers, pretty lil’ thing,” Harry chuckles.

“I’m not a thing,” Zayn replies. It comes out gravelly and wrong. Not playful, as it’s been most of the times Zayn’s told Harry that, because Zayn can’t find it in his heart to be playful about anything that night.

“Harry?”

Harry hums. His eyes are closed and his lips are grazing the edge of Zayn’s jaw, like he’s trying to see if he memorized the lines enough to trace them without looking.

“You promised to come back to me after the match, so that we could talk,” Zayn reminds him. He hates how small and tentative his voice sounds, like he’s begging, like he’s scared, but the truth is just that he _is_.

Harry opens his green, green eyes, and chuckles, and smirks, looking immediately more like the Cheshire Cat. “I’ll do my fucking best, babe,” he assures. “I still have many, many things I wanna do with you and _to_ you. Not all of them involve speaking.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, and tries to pull away from Harry while hitting him in the chest at the same time. Harry laughs, blocking Zayn’s wrist so that his hand stays on Harry’s left pec. Harry’s other arm wraps around Zayn’s waist, keeping him plastered to Harry’s front effectively. “I will fight with all my teeth, all my nails, and all my claws to win this, Zayn,” Harry whispers, the laughter gone from his lips, and his eyes serious. “And if we’re lucky, starting tomorrow, we’ll all be free. I’ll have a family again. My kid will have grandparents. And maybe, _maybe_ , I’ll even have a boyfriend.”

Zayn blinks, his brain taking a couple seconds to process the mere idea that he and Harry could be _normal boyfriends_. The thought is, somehow, even wilder than just dating an illegal box fighter. “Yeah,” he chuckles at last. “We… we should make sure Dilly gets lots of baths with rubber ducks. It’s important.”

Harry furrows his brow, an incredulous smirk quirking up his mouth. “Rubber ducks,” he repeats.

Zayn gulps down and nods. “Yeah. I think she doesn’t know what a bath with rubber ducks is. She should. My little sister used to love ‘em when she was a toddler. Dilly should… should do a lot of things she loves. Baths with rubber ducks. Going to the beach. Be free.”

Harry, who is still trapping Zayn against his front, only tightens his grip as he stares at Zayn. The more he stares, the bigger his smile gets, the deeper his dimples dig in his cheeks, and Zayn feels heat flare in his face, because _I think I’m fucking gone for this man and I don’t even care anymore, as long as he gets out of this fight alive_.

Harry kisses Zayn. It’s harsh and with a lot of teeth, but Zayn takes it and kisses him back just as strongly. “Can I choose the beach?” Harry asks at last, panting.

Zayn snorts. “I said I wanna take Dilly. I never said I’d take you as well.”

“I am her one and only legal tutor,” Harry declares. “Well, not really. But I’ll be. If I… if I win, if we’re free, I’m gonna go to the fucking Town Hall tomorrow morning and acknowledge my pretty lil’ thing. Will you come with me?”

Zayn nods. “I’ll add it to the list of things Dilly will love, then. Baths with rubber ducks. Going to the beach. Be free. Have a legal tutor in the form of her Daddy.”

Harry smiles, and then grins. “You know, whenever you say ‘Daddy’, my dick twitches.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You’re fucking disgusting. And you have the nerve to get offended when I say you’re a caveman.”

Harry barks a laugh, and kisses Zayn again for good measure. “Let’s go do this, pretty lil’ thing. Come under the ring, yeah? Cheer a little for me.”

Harry stops being a shithead and wears his best cold, blank expression as soon as he and Zayn get under the ring, past the ropes delimitating the crowd area. Everything is dark except the ring itself, where harsh, yellow lights shine so bright Zayn wonders how the fighters aren’t blinded by them.

Zayn can’t see anyone in the opposite corner from Harry’s yet.

“Zayn?” Harry calls him, without looking at him, keeping his eyes on the empty ring.

“Yeah?”

“If I go down,” Harry gulps a breath, “don’t wait for me to stand back up. If you think I’m losing, leave me here, and run with Louis. They know who you are. You’ll need to run as well. Louis will be at the exit with Dilly. Go with them. Go to your friend Niall. Make sure you’re all safe.”

For some reason, the things Harry says make Zayn extremely mad, because he’s heard him tell the same things to Louis, basically getting his best friend to agree to leave him bleeding on the floor. But Harry won’t get to make Zayn leave as well. “You’re speaking like you honestly think you have any power over what I decide to do, Harry Styles,” Zayn replies.

Harry looks abruptly at him, his eyes shining like a cat’s, like they have their own light inside them. “I’m serious, Zayn.”

Zayn tilts his head up. “I’m serious too. If you go down, you’ll need someone to make you stand up again. I might be scrawny, but I’m told I’m feisty as well.”

Harry chuckles, shaking his head incredulously. “And people even asked me what I meant when I said you were a pretty lil’ thing with pretty lil’ claws.”

Zayn doesn’t reply. They keep staring at the ring in the darkness, and taking advantage of the fact they’re not in any spotlight yet, Zayn lets his hand snake to Harry’s bandaged one, squeezing. “I’m scared, Harry,” he says, barely whispers it.

Harry nods. “Me too. Don’t tell anyone. I got a rep to preserve.”

Zayn chuckles. “You know, I hate all this. The violence, the illegal fights, the blood, all of it. But tonight I really fucking want to see you do your hiss-and-scratch victory thing. Whenever you do that, my dick twitches.”

Harry clamps his own mouth shut with his free hand, snickering. “Oh my God I _knew_ that!” he giggles. “The Cheshire Scratch never fails to arouse the audience.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Wanker.”

They stop bickering as soon as the host hops on the ring. This time, the host is none other than Grant himself, and Zayn chooses to see that as a good sign. Grant might be a bit of an arsehole, but Zayn has no doubts that he cares about Harry. So maybe he’ll make sure things don’t go too far south.

Grant introduces Harry first. Zayn frowns, because he still can’t see anyone in the opposite corner from him.

That is, until he _does_ see someone. The harsh yellow lights move a little after Grant introduces the opponent, The Panther, and Zayn realizes just why he wasn’t seeing anyone.

The man called The Panther has always been there; it’s just that... he’s not touching the ground. He’s perched on the small, wooden pillar in his corner, his legs bent and his hands propped in between his own feet, sitting there like a cat would.

_Not a cat. A panther_.

The man is wearing all black. Black tank top, black boots, black jeans. _How can he fight with jeans? And boots?_

His eyes are green, a bit darker than Harry’s, and he’s got shoulder-long, black hair held up in a lazy half ponytail. He looks only slightly older than Harry, maybe just a couple years. He’s grinning sleazily at Harry, who grins back, going to rest his broad back against the wooden pillar in his own corner, and he would look infinitely relaxed if Zayn couldn’t see the way his feet are only halfway planted on the ground, like he’s ready to jump.

_Two fucking felines, they are_.

Zayn had expected the Panther to be huge, maybe ever bigger than Dermot. Instead, the Panther is quite thin. He’s probably thinner than Harry himself, although Zayn can see that his shoulders are broad, and the muscles of his legs are hidden by his black jeans, but the position in which the man is still perched leaves no doubt that his legs are fucking strong, because Zayn can see the outline of his calves right through the denim, even from a distance. _He can’t be stronger than Harry. But his strong suit are his legs. He’s a kicker. That’s why he’s wearing boots._

Grant declares the match open, and quietly leaves the ring.

None of the fighters move. The crowd is eerily silent.

Then, the Panther snickers and mimics kissy sounds, like you would do to convince a cat to get closer. “C’mere, kitty, why are you scared?” the Panther asks. “You planning on staying in your little corner for the whole time?”

Harry chuckles. “From the positions we’re in, I think you’re more of a _kitty_ than I am. Also, don’t call me that. My man calls me that. He likes it when I scratch. You won’t, though.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, and he can’t help but feel a little bit of heat rise in his cheeks. He gets the taunting and the show-off of confidence, but does Harry have to mention their… private things like that?

“Lucky him,” the Panther sighs dramatically, raising one of his hands to look at his own nails. “You tell him who taught you how to scratch?”

That’s all Zayn needs to piece the deal together, and understand, because he’s still an investigator, he still notices gazes, comments, behaviours, and he’s still double as attentive when it’s about Harry. _They fucked. Ages ago, probably. It was nothing serious. The Panther seems bitter. Maybe he wanted more, and Harry didn’t._

Harry snorts. “You tell your missus who taught you how to fuck?”

The crowd laughs. Harry doesn’t, and neither does the Panther. Zayn suppresses a shaky sigh. He doesn’t even care about what happened between them, he just doesn’t want Harry to lose his focus, because he’s already seen what taunting can do to Harry, how it can make him lose all his concentration, and the Panther seems hell-bent on cooking Harry slowly, if the non-faltering grin on his lips is anything to go by.

The Panther shrugs. “Must have slipped my mind,” he answers. “What _hasn’t_ slipped my mind is all you owe me, Cat. But maybe it slipped _your_ mind. You ain’t gonna forget it anymore, after I’m done with you.”

Harry laughs. “You gotta _move_ to do anything with me, Edric.”

The mention of the Panther’s real name seems to do it. Edric’s green eyes flash in anger, and while the crowd starts to shout and complain for them to actually fight, Zayn wishes they never started, because when they do, it’s like watching two fucking lions jump to each other’s throats.

Edric moves first. He places all his weight on the balls of his feet, and uses the wooden pillar as a trampoline, jumping in the air, so high Zayn actually gapes.

Harry’s giving Zayn his back, so Zayn can’t look at him in the face. _Why isn’t he moving? Why’s he staring at this man fucking_ flying _towards him? He’s gonna land on him, kick him in the face_.

Edric never lands on Harry, though. Because right when they’re about to collide, Harry hisses, and he wraps his hands around Edric’s ankles, since Edric is trying to land on Harry’s face, boots first. He doesn’t manage, because Harry’s strong suit are his hands, his fingers, his _claws_ , so he grabs Edric’s ankles and effectively pushes him away. Edric lands on his back with an ugly _thud_ , and Harry chuckles. “Your moves have gotten old, Panther,” he says. “I got myself some new ones, though.”

The Panther doesn’t have time to recover from the blow to his back and stand up before Harry’s climbing over his own wooden pillar, and jumping all the same. He does land on Edric, his knees trapping Edric’s biceps by pinning them on the floor, and a first punch to Edric’s jaw is delivered in the clamour of the audience.

Zayn gasps silently. _It can’t be this easy. He can’t be already winning_ , he thinks, although he really wishes this was it.

It isn’t. The Panther takes three blows to his face from Harry, before grinning smugly and doing something with his legs under Harry, jostling him. Harry loses his balance, and Edric kicks him right in the small of his back, right where Zayn knows Harry’s always a bit sensitive, his back always a bit fucked up there.

Harry screams in pain, and Zayn steps forward, his hands going to grip the cords of the ring on their own accord.

Harry doesn’t look at Zayn, of course. And from where Zayn’s now standing, he gets a bit distracted from the fight, because through the badly lighted audience in front of him, he thinks he sees a peroxide blonde hair he knows extremely well.

Zayn frowns. _Niall?_

It’s gone, just as Zayn sees it. Maybe he’s just imagining things, conjuring images in his head to cope with the fucking _fear_ he’s feeling right now.

Zayn gets his eyes back on Harry. He and Edric are now circling each other, grinning, but Zayn can see that Harry’s kinda limping, his shoulders hunched like he’s already feeling the hurt in his back. He does, because Zayn feels his own spine hurt.

Edric grins, and points at Zayn with his head. “He your new toy? Pretty.”

Harry doesn’t reply.

“Maybe after we kill you and your _pretty lil’ thing_ I’ll have a go at your _other_ pretty lil’ thing,” Edric adds.

Zayn begs all the Gods above that Harry doesn’t fucking lose it already. Harry, to his credit, just chuckles. “Oh, Jesus, I’d really like to see you try. He’s a feisty one. Don’t think you have any power over what _he_ decides, Edric. He’s got his own claws.”

Edric sneers. “Good. They turn me on when they fight,” he replies.

Zayn grimaces, and Harry probably does too, if the shiver that clearly goes down his spine is anything to go by. The next moment, they’re both attacking again, and Zayn thinks that they’ve only _played_ until this very second.

Now, they mean to seriously hurt each other. Harry and Edric jump, punch and kick, their blows landing correctly on the other every time, until both their hands are drenched in blood, their knuckle bandages dripping blood on the floor, down their fingers. Harry has a completely split lip, one that will need a stitch, and Zayn doesn’t even care about the throbbing pain he can feel in his own, instantly. Because when it’s cuts, when it’s not just bruises, the pain and the flower are immediate, he’s learned with Harry’s thousand wounds.

The old wounds on Harry’s chest have opened again, and they’re dripping blood as well. There’s a new cut on Harry’s cheekbone.

Edric is not better off. His wounds are hidden by his tank top, but Zayn can clearly see the wet spots of blood on the material, proof that Harry’s blows have reached him, that Harry’s claws have scratched him.

None of them is winning, but both of them are slowly losing. They’re losing their strength, their swiftness, their technique. The blows are becoming more frantic, less calculated, more frustrated.

Zayn sees people shift in the audience. A couple of them even go away, exchange places. Everything feels weird and like there’s something Zayn’s totally missing.

_What is it? What’s happening? What am I not seeing?_

Edric makes a huge mistake, then.

“How’s your sissy, Cat? Been told you’re gonna be an uncle shortly? Too bad you won’t be alive to actually hold the baby.”

Zayn’s stomach twists painfully. Harry’s whole back arches and straightens, like it’s taking him all his strength. “What did you just say?”

Edric grins. “I have ears and eyes _everywhere_ , Harry Styles. You’re still making the same fucking mistake. You think you can outsmart me. But you can’t. You’re not _hiding_ from me. I’m _letting_ you. But I _watch_ you, Harry, I’m always breathing on your fucking neck. How does it feel?”

Harry doesn’t reply, but he lurches forward, screaming. Zayn wants to scream too, because he knows Harry’s doing that thing again, where fear and anger get the best of him and he doesn’t _think_ , but he knows that him screaming will only distract Harry more, so he has to watch, powerlessly.

Harry’s first three blows don’t get their target. Edric parries them easily, laughing, and taunting Harry with how he thinks Gemma will call the baby if it’s a boy.

“And if it’s a girl,” Edric says at last, panting a bit because parrying all of Harry’s blows is taking its toll on him anyway, “maybe she’ll call her Delilah, can you imagine? To honour the little niece she never fucking met because I smashed her skull before she could!”

That, Zayn will think later, is the real mistake the Panther makes.

Because Edric knows Harry, and he must know that all he does, all the blows he delivers, all the _violence_ he puts himself through, it’s for his kid. So it was only obvious that a comment like that, about the kid and _his sister’s_ unborn one, would make Harry see red.

And it does.

Zayn sees all the colour drain from Edric’s face, and he wishes he could see Harry’s face as well in that moment, except he kinda dreads it too. Zayn never sees what Edric’s seeing, but it must be scary, because he’s not the only one who pales. The audience on that side does too, and most of the people even take a step backwards as Harry screams and lounges forward, his fist connecting with Edric’s jaw repeatedly, until there’s blood spluttering all around, and Edric falls on his arse.

When he’s on the ground, too hurt to stand up quicker than Harry can hit him again, Harry looms over him, and when he speaks, he isn’t hissing, he isn’t whispering. He’s screaming, and crying. “You’re forgetting something, Panther!” he wheezes, pants.

Edric, too astonished and probably too hurt to fight back or reply, just stares up at him.

“You weren’t the one who taught me how to scratch!” Harry spits a mixture of blood and saliva on the ground. “It was _Simon_. Not you. Simon Cowell. Say his name. Say what you did!”

Edric blinks.

Harry grunts, kicking him in the side. “Say what you did!”

Edric grins. “Look at you, crying over someone who took you and threw you on a ring for money,” he comments. “Yeah, I killed him. And you should thank me.”

“Simon _helped me_ when no one else could,” Harry hisses. “So I shouldn’t thank you. I should kill you.”

_No no no Harry what the fuck are you doing, no_ , Zayn thinks frantically.

“But I won’t,” Harry adds, looming more over the Panther’s battered frame. “Because I’m not like you. I’m not a murderer. I’m the Cheshire Cat. And I’m _more_.”

That said, Harry hisses and scratches the column of Edric’s throat, eliciting a pained whimper.

Zayn feels his legs go to jelly as the crowd explodes. _He won. He’s safe. He’s free._

Grant hops on the ring, declaring Harry the winner.

With mighty difficulty, Edric stands up too, and joins them in the middle of the ring, staring at Harry with an angry gaze.

_Too angry_.

He passes Harry by, nodding, but he doesn’t go far. He leans over the ring, on the side where Zayn himself is, and one of his people hands him a towel to dry his face from sweat and blood.

_Why are they on this side?_

Zayn’s heart stops. He sees more people move frantically in the audience. Harry’s still on the ring with Grant, and Edric’s not jumping off. He’s now facing Harry, giving Zayn his back. “Hey, Cat?” Edric calls, awfully calm.

Harry hums.

“You’re free. A word is a word,” he announces, stretching a hand out for Harry.

Harry shakes it.

Zayn should be glad. Instead, there’s panic running through his veins like it’s completely replaced his blood, because he might not know much about _The Jungle_ , but one thing he knows.

_They don’t have morals, they don’t value shit, let alone their own word._

That’s when he sees something flash. Edric lets the towel in his other hand fall, the one that is not shaking Harry’s. And suddenly, once the towel’s gone, Zayn sees it.

A knife.

“HARRY HE’S GOT A KNIFE!” Zayn shouts at the top of his lungs.

Harry hears him, widens his eyes, but it’s too late. Because Edric pulls Harry closer by the hand he’s still shaking, and then plunges the knife his lackey has handed him right in Harry’s side.

Zayn sees and feels many things, then.

He sees the blood flow out of Harry’s wound as Harry screams and falls on his knees.

He hears people scream.

He feels an unbearable pain in his side, instantly, because cuts are just like that.

The pain is so much that Zayn brings his own hands to his side, lifting his shirt, sure that he’s gonna find a wound and blood flowing on himself too. Instead, the only thing he sees his a huge, beautiful, crimson rose blooming on his skin, and that’s when his legs finally give up under the pain.

Harry’s also on the ground, staring at Zayn with a surprised expression as he tries and fails to stop his own blood loss.

Zayn wonders if deadly wounds on your soulmate kill you too. He’s about to find out, he reckons, because he feels a bit like he’s dying, so Harry must be dying for sure.

People run all around. There are more screams. Grant pushes Edric away, but there’s no need to.

Because in that moment, Zayn sees the most absurd scene of all.

Louis Tomlinson and Eleanor Calder are jumping on the ring, throwing themselves at Edric and catching him by sheer surprise rather than actual strength, seeing that they’re almost as scrawny as Zayn.

Behind them, Niall and a couple more people climb the ring.

Zayn would very much like to scream a loud “What the fuck”, but he doesn’t manage before his eyes droop and he loses consciousness, seeing Harry do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done! I'm a bit sad but I also can't wait to know what you think about this story when it'll finally be over. 
> 
> As usual, let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	10. Deliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing Zayn notices is that he wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, in a white room with lights too harsh on his eyes as he blinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and the original characters.

The first thing Zayn notices is that he wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, in a white room with lights too harsh on his eyes as he blinks.

The pain in his side isn’t exactly gone, but it has subsided a little bit. Zayn kicks away the hospital duvet—because he’s clearly in a hospital—and carefully lifts his top.

The big, crimson rose is still there on his ribs. It’s so fucking beautiful it kinda catches him off guard. It almost covers his whole side, with intricate lines for the entwining petals. It’s the colour of fresh blood, the colour he’s seen flowing out of Harry’s own side.

_Harry_.

Zayn takes a ragged breath, feeling his stomach twist painfully, and blinks frantically, trying to get rid of his faintness so that he can _think_.

“He’s fine. Slow down. Breathe, Zed.”

Zayn gasps, only then noticing there’s someone sitting next to him.

It’s Niall, and Liam. They’re both sitting in two chairs by the right side of Zayn’s bed. Niall looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his peroxide blonde hair all messed up. Zayn remembers seeing him in the crowd, at the match. He thought he was imagining things, but Niall was really there, wasn’t he?

“Harry,” Zayn only croaks. He flexes his fingers, and the absence of the rose ring on his index scares him more than anything else, as absurd as it sounds.

Liam sighs, and rummages through his own pockets, swiftly handing Zayn the ring. “They took it off you when they admitted you here. I took good care of it, don’t worry,” he tells Zayn with a small smile.

Zayn slips the ring on his finger. “Harry,” he says again. His voice doesn’t work properly. He wants to ask, _where’s Harry? Is Harry okay? He got stabbed in the side. Where is he? Where’s Dilly?_

Niall nods, and gently pats Zayn on the leg. “He’s okay, Zed. He was in surgery and they saved him, stitched him up real good. You were under for the whole time he was, and you started coming to when he did as well. I’d… fuck, I’d never seen two soulmates handling a deadly wound. It was intense. We were scared you were gonna die by reflex, if Harry died,” he says quietly, and a bit grimly.

_Does it mean he didn’t die, then?_

“Yeah. As I said, he’s okay,” Niall replies, letting Zayn know he spoke out loud. “He’s already out of bed, even. Resilient motherfucker, I gotta say. He was here with us until ten minutes ago. He should be in bed but he went out, said he wanted to talk to his sister. He’s gonna be pissed when he’ll realize you woke up and he wasn’t here.”

Liam chuckles. “He’s gotten pissed for much less, yeah.”

Zayn’s head is spinning. Despite just wanting to get out of bed and look for Harry and Dilly, he forces himself to lean his back into the pillows. “What… what happened?” he asks.

Niall sighs. “Liam called me. Right when the match started. He told me everything you’ve been doing in the past few days. I’m so fucking mad at you, Zayn, I swear if I wasn’t so fucking happy you’re alive, I would fucking arrest you. It’s been a mess to get your name and Liam’s out of this whole ordeal. Thank your agency’s lawyers, when you’re out of here.”

Zayn sighs and nods. “So you came? To _The Creek_?”

“Yeah. I’ve known about _The Creek_ and _The Jungle_ for a year, you know. I even knew where the clubs were located. But every time we got there during the day, we always only found a normal, legal gym. And when we went there undercover at night, we never managed to get inside.”

Zayn chuckles. “There’s a code at the door. Everything has a code.”

“Yeah, cheers,” Niall mutters. “You’re lucky we didn’t need any code tonight at last.”

“Sophia let him in,” Liam supplies. “She… she was so tired, of all the violence, of Harry and Dilly hiding. So when she saw Niall and the other officers at _The Creek_ ’s door, she let them in. They mixed with the audience around the ring.”

“I almost had a coronary when I saw Harry Styles up there. Liam had told me. But seeing him… that’s another thing entirely.”

Zayn nods. “Yeah. He’s… he’s something.” _Where is he? I wanna see him._

“The Panther’s real name is Edric Irwin,” Niall continues. “I’ve tried to get my hands on him, for homicide, for a long time. He killed someone. A man called Simon Cowell, who was also involved with _The Creek_. I never had any actual proof, so I could never do shit about it. So when I saw that he was fighting Harry, and that they were talking about Cowell, I waited. I made eye contact with Harry on the ring. I _knew_ he knew who I was. That’s why… that’s why he started screaming at Edric to say what he did to Simon Cowell. He wanted me to get proof, a confession. So I waited, and I got it. But I was still too slow, and then Edric got his knife, and stabbed Harry. I’m sorry, Zed. I should have been quicker.”

Zayn’s head is still spinning a little, but he remembers just how _fast_ everything happened, so he shakes his head. “No, Niall. Everything happened so fast. Not even Harry could have done anything, and he’s the quickest human being I’ve ever seen move, to be honest.”

Niall chuckles. “Yeah, he looked pretty dangerous up there. He looked even more dangerous after the doctors fixed him, and he demanded to see you. They wouldn’t allow it. I think he almost gauged a nurse’s eyes out. He got his way, in the end. Got a bed right next to you,” he points on the other side of the room.

Zayn doesn’t have to struggle to believe that, and he chuckles too, despite the pain in his torso and the fear still thrumming through his body. “Where’s Dilly?”

“Louis called Eleanor,” Liam replies. “Did you… did you know that he sent her a text with your phone, two days ago?”

Zayn frowns. “No.”

“He did. He said that he told you to tell her a secret word or something, but that he knew you wouldn’t, so while you were with Harry in his room, he took your phone and sent her a text with that word, deleting it afterwards. He told her about the match, told her to come here at ten p.m. because he needed help. Eleanor showed up right on the dot. She kicked Louis in the bollocks and then kissed him. She took Dilly away, to Harry’s parents. She’s with them now. Louis too.”

“So… so Dilly was already out of _The Creek_ before the match even started?”

Niall nods. “Yeah. See, Zayn, I understand why you and Harry thought you couldn’t ask for help. But if you had, none of this would have ever happened.”

“She’s _two_ , Niall. We… we couldn’t risk it. Harry couldn’t risk it.”

“Well,” Niall sighs. “Now it’s done. Delilah’s safe with her grandparents. Harry’s not dead, although his sister might be suppressing a homicidal wish against him and you. She’s around here as well. She saw both of you unconscious and she swore so filthily it made _me_ blush.”

Zayn laughs. “Yeah. She’s really something, too. Styles’, I guess.”

They don’t speak for a moment. Zayn opens his mouth then, because he wants to ask what’s gonna happen now, but the words never come out, because right that moment, the door opens, and the stomp of a lazy—now hurt as well—swagger fills Zayn’s ears and makes him sigh in relief.

“Zayn,” Harry breathes.

Zayn turns. Harry’s standing in the doorway.

He looks abnormally pale, like he lost a lot of blood, which he surely did. He’s wearing jeans and a bloody t-shirt, with his hair in a bun, and his eyes are wide and scared in his face. His lips are shaking.

Zayn’s limbs relax so much he would be falling in a heap on the floor if he wasn’t already in bed. He does his best to grin, and he even raises a thumbs-up for Harry. “You won, kitty.”

Harry chuckles and immediately bursts into tears. There’s a nurse behind him, a short middle-aged lady who grunts and blabbers something about Harry needing to be in his own bed instead of roaming around the hospital like a caged panther, and Zayn would very much like her not to ever use _that_ animal as a comparison, so he says as much. “He’s a cat, not a panther, cheers,” he tells the nurse.

The nurse blinks. “I told Doctor Mills. I told him you probably also hit your head. He didn’t listen, he said you’re fine.”

Niall laughs, and he and Liam stand up, patting the nurse on the shoulder. “He didn’t hit his head, missus. He’s been bonkers for years, I’m afraid,” Niall tells her.

They manage to pester the nurse enough that they force her to get out of the room with them, making Harry promise to get in bed (Zayn finally notices the empty, unmade bed next to his own), and the next moment he and Harry are alone in the room.

Only when Harry covers the distance between them and sits on the edge of Zayn’s bed, to his right, does Zayn realize that the last thing they needed to speak about is out in the open now, courtesy of a stabbing wound by Edric Irwin.

Harry looks at Zayn in the eyes, and then runs his thumb on Zayn’s bottom lip, only delicately. Zayn feels it throb, and he can’t see himself, but he knows he has a flower there, and another on his cheekbone where Harry drives his thumb next, because he can see the two cuts on Harry’s own, beautiful face.

Then, Harry sighs and even more delicately strokes Zayn’s side, over his hospital gown. “Can I… can I see it?” Harry asks at last. “They… they didn’t let me look at it yet. Liam says it’s the most fucking beautiful flower bruise you’ve ever gotten.”

Zayn chuckles, and he pulls his top up, just enough for the rose to be exposed.

Harry takes a breath, and he never releases it. His eyes widen, and his fingers ghost over the petals and the stem, without touching because he must know how much it hurts, seeing that he’s got the _real_ wound matching that rose. “Fuck,” Harry mutters then.

“So… I guess now you know,” Zayn says, clearing his throat.

Harry clears his throat too, and he finally tilts his head up, so that their eyes meet. “I think I’ve known for a while, pretty lil’ thing.”

Zayn blinks. “H-Have you?”

Harry chuckles, and nods. “I think I figured it out when we fucked for the first time, at your place, and you scratched me,” he tells Zayn. “But I didn’t say anything, because you also didn’t say anything, and because all the rest was so much more pressing, you know. But I figured it out. I got more proofs in the next days. You bite your lips a lot, always have. I can feel that. And when the Panther stabbed me, I saw you go to the ground, and I was afraid, like, what if the soulmate bruises are deathly wounds? Does your soulmate die too? I guess we’ll never know, because I didn’t die. I won, and I survived. And you survived too.”

Zayn nods. His hands run for Harry’s over the comforter, and their fingers entwine. There are no rings on Harry’s hands, but Zayn knows they’re still safe in his jeans. He’ll give Harry all his rings back, later. Well, all except one.

“Liam called your detective friend, Niall,” Harry continues his version of the story. “Niall Horan has been trying to bust _The Jungle_ and _The Creek_ for forever, he’s gotten so fucking close lately, I think Grant has nightmares about him or summat.”

Zayn chuckles, because the thought of Grant, huge and ripped, being scared of teeny tiny Niall is a bit ridiculous. But he understands. Niall is kinda ruthless when he thinks people should go to jail. It’s his job, after all. “Niall can be scary, yeah,” he agrees. “Harry? Is… Is Dilly okay?”

Harry chuckles too, and nods. “They called Gemma, she brought Dilly to my parents, where she’s safe. My Mum is already smitten with Dilly, she’s like, crying a lot. Dilly was a bit suspicious of the new faces, Louis says, but she brought Mr. Kitty with her and she said that her Daddy and the Prince of Kitties are gonna save everyone, so she’s a bit more at ease now. Louis also called Eleanor. Did you see them, Zayn? They fucking fought Edric, The fucking Panther. By themselves. Even managed to punch him in the face.”

Zayn laughs. He remembers the absurdly tragicomic scene he last saw before going to the ground. He nods. “Eleanor Calder is twice as scary as the fucking Panther, Harry, I won’t lie.”

Harry laughs, delicately twisting Zayn’s fingers in his own. “Yeah. She kicked Louis in the bollocks when they finally saw each other again, screamed something about a chihuahua, I’m not sure. She’s a little crazy, sometimes.”

Zayn smiles. “We all have our codes, babe,” he declares.

Harry chuckles, and nods. “Gemma kicked _me_ in the bollocks when she came here after I got out of surgery and insisted to get out of this fucking bed as well. Sorry about the next flower, it’s gonna be a bad one. She said that she’ll kick you in the bollocks as well when you’ll be fine, so we’ll be even.”

Zayn sighs. When he does, his side tingles painfully, and he winces, bringing a hand to it. Harry looks at him worriedly, and his hands tighten around Zayn’s legs, feeling him up, like he wants to do something but he doesn’t know what. Zayn chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m fine, Harry. Just a little bit of reflected pain. You’re the one who should be, like, unconscious. How are you not dead?”

Harry laughs. “My skin got thicker on the ring, I guess. I mean, it fucking hurts. But I’m okay,” he says, lifting his t-shirt. Zayn sees the knife wound, covered in an _actual_ bandage, and properly taken care of, and he sighs in relief, not even caring about the pain in his side anymore.

It’ll pass.

“It’s done, Zayn,” Harry says then, his eyes boring into Zayn’s. “ _The Jungle_ and _The Creek_ don’t exist anymore. Grant and Edric are gonna go to jail. I’m sorry for Grant, but he knew what he was getting himself into when he took Simon’s place after he died. The rest of us, we’ll get out of it with community service for a year or summat, or so Niall says. He says we can all hold fucking self-defence classes in an actual gym. He’s a cool lad. It’s done. I’m free. We all are. Dilly’s safe.”

They don’t speak for a moment, after Harry says it out loud.

That they’re free, that it’s done, that Harry can stop hiding and he can start giving his daughter a proper, happy life, in an actual house, with an actual family taking care of her and helping.

Zayn stares at Harry for a long moment. He takes in the smooth plains and valleys of his stupidly nice biceps, and his knuckles still specked with blood. The next question leaves his lips on its own accord, because he’s honestly done _not_ speaking. “Will you fight again?” he asks Harry. “Do you… do you still want to fight, Harry?”

Harry laughs, like the mere question is ridiculous. “I wanna be an English teacher, Zayn,” he says incredulously. “Can you believe it? That it’s become my wildest fucking dream? I was an editor, but I didn’t particularly like it. What I like is Shakespeare. I wanna be a teacher. I wanna have a course on _Hamlet_. I wanna tell people about poor Yorick.”

Zayn nods, and laughs too. He fights the pain in his side when he sits up straighter, leaning over because the need to be closer to Harry is starting to be even more painful than the bruise on his ribs. Harry must understand, because he doesn’t tell him not to move, but he leans over as well, to make the distance between them shorter.

They meet in the middle, like they’ve done a thousand more times in the span of those long, long five days. When their lips are brushing, Harry speaks again. “Will you keep my rose ring, Zayn? It’s a symbol. That I’m not just the Cheshire Cat, as Simon said. As you also said. It’s only fair that you keep it. Then, if you… if you don’t wanna have anything to do with me anymore, I’ll understand.”

Zayn sighs. “Will you go on a fucking _normal_ date with me, if I promise to keep your ring safe, kitty?”

Harry gapes, but just for a moment. He recovers quickly, and then he grins, his hand going to cup the side of Zayn’s face, his thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I’m not a cat anymore, pretty lil’ thing.”

“And I’m not a thing,” Zayn grins too. “But I still like it when you scratch. Now, before we talk about anything else, and before I recover enough to have the strength to kick you in the bollocks myself… I wanna know just _how exactly_ you ended up fucking The Panther. With details. Chronological, sexual, logistical. Speak, kitty.”

+

Zayn and Harry’s first date isn’t exactly the most _normal_.

Because they don’t go to any restaurant, or club, or bar, and they’re not alone.

Dilly’s with them, and Louis, Eleanor, Greg, Gemma, Anne, Robin, Liam, Sophia, and Niall.

They go to the Town Hall, and keep Harry company while he goes inside and finally acknowledges his daughter.

When they get out, they have papers saying that Dilly’s full name is Delilah Ophelia Styles, for real, officially (Zayn still thinks it’s a bit too fancy, as a name, but Dilly likes it, so who is he to judge?). Harry cries a little in Zayn’s neck when they hug, because it might not be a big deal, except it fucking is, and Zayn knows.

They spend the day with Dilly, who is fucking flipping at the thought that they’re just casually strolling through the city, _out in the open_. She blabbers to Mr. Kitty about anything she sees, from trees to light poles, from cars to other people walking, and Zayn thinks that they’re one step closer to crossing out _Be free_ from Dilly’s ever-growing list of things she should enjoy.

Niall has warned Harry that he’ll have armies of social workers coming at him very soon. Harry, though, is not worried, because his house is nice and on point, his family is amazing, and the only thing the social workers are gonna find there is Dilly surrounded by people who love her and take care of her, in a nice, safe environment, buried in toys and with her own, _real_ room.

Things are changing for the better, slowly, but surely.

+

It takes a whole year, because Harry’s not allowed to leave the country while he does his community service at a local gym with all the people from the old _Creek_ , holding self-defence classes and _real_ boxing lessons. Harry never complains, though, not even when he gets back home utterly exhausted and collapses in bed next to Zayn after barely having enough strength to hug Dilly and tell her “Goodnight, my pretty lil’ thing, sleepy time for you and for Daddy”.

During that year, more things change.

Zayn becomes ace at understanding Dilly’s baby talk, especially after he and Harry move in together, in Harry’s place because it’s huge.

Louis and Eleanor get married. Louis’s vows include the word ‘chihuahua’, and Eleanor punches him in the face right in front of the priest, who almost has a coronary. They spend the rest of the wedding with a light red bruise on Louis’s cheek, and a light red iris on Eleanor’s.

Gemma gives birth to a beautiful baby boy, and Harry cries when he holds him for the first time, because apparently he really, _really_ wanted to be an uncle.

Harry studies to complete his qualification to teach. He puts his heart and soul into it, never asking for help (which Zayn provides anyway in the form of tea, massages for his fucked-up back, and blowjobs/other sexual performances when he wants Harry’s undivided attention).

It pays off, because a year later, shortly after his community service is finally over, Harry gets a job offer from the local university, to teach a small English literature course. It’s nothing much, but Harry’s so happy that Zayn throws him a surprise party, and they all celebrate like they just won a lottery. Which kinda feels like they did.

Zayn buys Dilly an army of stuffed cats over the months, making sure he lives up to his title of Prince of Kitties.

So, it takes a whole year, but then, when summer’s approaching, as soon as Harry and Zayn get their vacations from work, they book a flight to Italy, and they finally bring Dilly to the beach.

“You didn’t want me to choose the place, but you’re fighting yourself not to tell me that I made an _amazing choice_ ,” Harry declares with a sigh as he lies down on top of Zayn, completely bypassing his own sunbed in favour of bothering Zayn.

Zayn grunts and struggles under Harry’s weight. “Get off me, you fucking giraffe.”

Harry giggles and lets Zayn free. They both laugh after a moment, and Zayn thinks he’ll kinda never grow tired of those dimples now permanently etched to Harry’s face, as they should have always been.

They’re sunbathing in a small patch of sand in Positano, southern Italy, on the private beach of their hotel. Dilly’s happily playing by the sea shore with Summer Mr. Kitty, a rubber Cheshire Cat that Zayn bought her so she could have a Mr. Kitty on the beach as well, without soaking and ruining her original stuffed one. Zayn stares at Dilly one more moment, making sure she’s wearing her floaties even if she’s just sitting on the sea shore, with the almost setting sun bathing her in reds and golds.

When he turns to look at Harry, he’s grinning. “You’re scared of water,” Harry declares.

Zayn arches an eyebrow. “Um, yeah? Been knowing me for a year and a half, you nitwit. You know I am.”

“No no no, you’re _scared_ of water. Like, your heart’s beating faster, I can _hear_ it!”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Harry,” he mutters, perfectly knowing Harry’s right.

Harry laughs and crawls all over Zayn again, snickering and trying to kiss his neck, his big hands grabbing for any piece of skin he manages to touch while Zayn uselessly pushes him away.

“Stop being so handsy, our daughter is right fucking there, Harry!” Zayn laughs at last.

They both freeze. Zayn snaps his mouth shut, feeling his stomach drop and drop and drop. Harry’s completely motionless, his face unreadable as Zayn regrets ever speaking, because yes, they’ve been living together for a year, but they’ve never talked about _this_ , about what Zayn is to Dilly, and what if… what if…

Then, Harry smiles, and he crashes his mouth against Zayn’s, catching him by surprise. “If _our daughter_ wasn’t right there,” he mutters on Zayn’s lips, “I’d fuck your brains out right this second.”

Zayn laughs, letting go of the nerves just threatening to make him turn into jelly. “Then we’d go to jail for inappropriate public behaviour.”

Harry shrugs. “We’d call Niall. I’m sure we’d get out of it with a little community service.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and he’s about to tell Harry off for the umpteenth time, but he never speaks, because right then Dilly laughs and runs to them, climbing the sunbed until she’s sitting in Zayn’s lap. Summer Mr. Kitty is wet and covered in sand when she smacks it against Zayn’s chest, but Zayn couldn’t care less, because Dilly’s happy, and she’s got the dimples and the green eyes and the now fairly long curls. “Daddy, can we have a rubber duck bath later?” she asks.

It takes Zayn a moment to understand she’s not talking to Harry.

Zayn gulps down, feeling his heart do a mighty somersault. “Dilly? Are you… are you talking to me?”

Dilly rolls her eyes and sighs, much like Zayn himself does all the time. “ _Of course_ , Daddy. Who gives me and Summer Mr. Kitty the _best_ rubber duck baths?”

Harry gapes and giggles and the same time, pointedly giving them his back as he covers his face to hide his reaction. Zayn’s heart twitches. He smiles down at Dilly, and combs her hair out of her face with his hands. “Yeah, love. We’re gonna get a massive rubber duck bath as soon as we get back to the hotel,” he promises. “We’ll use Daddy’s favourite almond shower gel, consume all of it, yeah?”

“Hey!” Harry shrieks.

Dilly laughs. “Yes!”

Dilly falls right asleep as soon as the rubber duck bath Zayn promised her is over, and she’s all dry and wearing her pyjamas. Harry takes care of putting her to bed, while Zayn fixes the bathroom a little, because they might be in a hotel, but there’s just no way he’ll let those poor people from the staff clean _this_ mess up.

When the floor is decent and the bathtub drained, Zayn brushes his teeth and goes back to his and Harry’s bedroom, not bothering to change out of the towel draped around his waist, because he knows Harry.

Right on cue, as soon as he steps in proximity of the bed, hands appear out of nowhere behind him and wrap around his waist, until Harry’s chest is pressed to Zayn’s back, with Harry’s lips right against his ear. “Well, I guess congrats are in order, _Daddy_.”

Zayn shivers and turns in the circle of Harry’s arms. “Do you remember when… when we were at _The Creek_ that last night, and you joked that whenever I said ‘Daddy’, your dick twitched?”

Harry grins. “I do. And, still true.”

Zayn nods. “I guess I _kinda_ understand the appeal. Hypothetically. If I don’t think _too much_ about the concept,” he concedes. “And we should explore this newfound kink of mine.”

Harry nods eagerly, kissing Zayn dirtily. “Okay. But not tonight. Another time. Now I kinda just wanna love on you a little bit, my pretty lil’ thing.”

Zayn chuckles, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. “I’m not a thing,” he retorts. “But you can love on me all you want, kitty.”

Harry chuckles and picks Zayn straight up, dropping him unceremoniously on the bed and pulling roughly at the towel until it peels away from Zayn’s hips, leaving him completely exposed on the bed.

Zayn looks up at Harry, who’s also naked, and he thinks that these days, there are no other bruises and flowers on their bodies, if you don’t count the small ones coming from them having sex and ‘loving on each other’ like Harry says.

“So fucking pretty all the time,” Harry murmurs, kneeling down by the edge of the bed, in between Zayn’s parted legs, and placing his lips on the inside of Zayn’s thigh, sucking a mark into the skin.

That’s a kink of Harry’s that Zayn kinda shares. Leaving marks only so that he himself will get pretty lil’ flowers on his own body. Zayn would never admit it out loud, but finding those small flowers on his own skin and knowing that he’s the one who marked Harry’s body in the same spot turns him on beyond measure.

So now he lets Harry suck mark over mark into his thighs, the vee of his groin, his stomach and collarbones, until both of them are a panting mess, with their dicks hard and leaking and screaming for attention as they glide wetly against one another when Harry finally covers Zayn’s body with his own.

They forgo the condom, as they’ve started to do after they both got tested some months ago. Harry only gets a hold of the lube they put in the drawer, and lubricates his own fingers, starting to open Zayn up nice and good.

When Zayn’s ready, and Harry has lathered his cock in lube as well, Zayn grins up at him, and stops him. “You know what I was thinking?” he tells Harry.

Harry sighs dramatically. “Zayn, is this really the moment to think?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah. Because I was thinking that I kinda miss my scratchy Cat. The one who used to hold me up against walls, and all that. You happen to know where he’s gone?”

Harry laughs. He doesn’t need to hear more, and the next moment he’s picking Zayn up from the bed, kissing him so dirtily it makes Zayn’s head spin, and then Zayn’s being shoved against the wall, roughly, with the wind being knocked out of him.

Zayn pants and holds himself up with his forearms on Harry’s shoulders, and locks his calves on the small of Harry’s back. “Won’t your back be all fucked up tomorrow?” he asks then, frowning.

Harry chuckles, and presses Zayn more into the wall to better hold him up, while he lines himself up with his other hand. “Who cares. ‘S not like I’ve got a boxing match in the morning or summat,” he replies.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Not funny.”

“You love me,” Harry whispers, pants on Zayn’s lips, and at the same moment he pushes himself past Zayn’s rim, breaching him swiftly and surely, and bottoming out in one thrust.

Zayn’s mouth goes slack, and he forgets what they’re even talking about. “Fuck, Harry, how is it always so fucking good?”

Harry chuckles, bucking his hips. “’M the Cheshire Cat, pretty lil’ thing. It’s always good, with me.”

“Bit, ah, pretentious,” Zayn gasps, while Harry pumps himself inside him faster just to gloat at the way Zayn’s sentence breaks in half.

Zayn’s nails dig in Harry’s shoulders as Harry sets a steady, fast pace, and soon enough they’re both muffling their screams not to wake Dilly in the other room, and Zayn’s bouncing on Harry’s dick while Harry helps him up and down, up and down.

“Not pretentious. Just realistic, pretty lil’ thing.” Harry’s still sporting a smug grin as he fucks up into Zayn, but Zayn’s been in bed with Harry for almost two years, and he’s sure there’s really little about Harry’s sexual kinks he doesn’t know. So he grins, and only leaves one arm around Harry’s shoulder, while the other hand goes to cup the side of Harry’s face. They kiss, and Harry smiles.

Then, Zayn’s hand goes a bit further down, right on Harry’s pulse point, and Harry’s green eyes widen just as his dick inside Zayn twitches.

Zayn grins. He quirks his lips on Harry’s, and scratches down the column of his throat, hissing like a cat, and leaving four red lines on Harry’s skin. He’ll have matching flowers there, but it’s totally worth it, because Harry gapes, and stills, and then comes on the spot, with a shout, like he wasn’t expecting it, like the orgasm has been ripped and stolen from him.

“Two years, and you’re still surprised about what a _pretty lil’ thing_ can do,” Zayn grins smugly.

Harry’s pressing him even more into the wall, shuddering and recovering from his unexpected orgasm, pulsing inside Zayn in a way that almost makes Zayn himself come. But he holds himself at bay, because he’s waiting for the best kind of retaliation from his Cat.

Harry grunts and pants, until his speech is recovered. He stares at Zayn, and his eyes flash wickedly.

A moment later, he gets off the wall and throws Zayn on the bed, not giving him time to do anything before he’s lowering his mouth on him, swallowing him whole and making Zayn emit a strained whimper as Harry straight-up deepthroats him with no warning.

“Ah, fuck, Harry, when you do this, I, I never fucking expect it, fuck,” Zayn mutters, his mouth made loose by Harry’s tongue and mouth.

Harry pulls off and smirks. “As I said countless times,” he pants, his voice all fucked up, “I love to ruin pretty lil’ things sometimes.”

It’s been two years, and one of the first things Zayn learned about Harry is still true.

Harry Styles always, always delivers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is also done. Many big hugs and thanks to every reader who got invested in this story, you made me smile with all your comments, and I'm glad you loved reading this fic just as much as I loved writing it.
> 
> I have still many works to post, so stay tuned for more.
> 
> Till next time!


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